


Tanqueray

by Poochee



Category: Actor RPF, Marvel Cinematic Universe RPF, Real Person Fiction, Thor (Movies) RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Between Tom and Minor Character, Daddy Kink, Denial of Feelings, DrugLord!Chris, Emotional Hurt, Escort!Tom, Explicit Sexual Content, Falling In Love, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, M/M, Manipulation, Multi, Organized Crime, Slow To Update, Smoking, Violence, mention of terminal illness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-07
Updated: 2017-02-07
Packaged: 2018-03-06 11:00:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 84,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3132044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Poochee/pseuds/Poochee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tom is an emotionally numbed escort with a heavy history of abuse. Chris is a Spaniard-Aussie working his cartel in Columbia, who wants a pretty face to call him "Daddy" for a night. Their mutuality makes everything inevitable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Froot/Numb

**Author's Note:**

>   
>  "I’m your carnal flower, I’m your bloody rose  
> Pick my petals off and make my heart explode  
> I’m your deadly nightshade, I’m your cherry tree  
> You’re my one true love, I’m your destiny"  
> Froot ~ Marina & the Diamonds
> 
>  
> 
> [my growing collection of inspiration](http://poochee.tumblr.com/search/Tanqueray)

_It’s okay. You’re okay. You’re being used and that is oh-kay._

He has his façade, like most. Curly blond hair with big, blue puppy-dog eyes and a pink pout to match.

_Close your eyes. Pretend they love you._

The epitome of innocence.

_They must love you if they’re treating you like this. Soft hands, cold eyes. Empty promises on full lips._

Knobby knees and bony knuckles, a nervous little smile with slightly crooked teeth. Sweet as fruit, ripe for the taking, again and again and again, by many.

_Say it. ‘Please fuck me.’ Say it, make them happy._

Having sex for money, bending over backwards to please people in the most fucked up of ways, was not what Tom had expected his life to be.

_Good boy._

He’s happy, sometimes. Like Leon, “happily” married for exactly two years in one month. Leon is thirty years old, tall and handsome, with big hands and a soft smile. A gentle lover that can definitely be rough when wanted, who often smokes cigarettes after a fuck, the stick hanging from his lip as Tom straddles him with a coy smile.

“My wife never lets me smoke in bed,” he mutters, watching Tom pluck it from his mouth.

Tom takes a deep drag, quelling that annoying addiction itch, and blows the smoke with a backwards tip of his head.

He watches the smoke dance in the air, his eyes lidded, and mutters back, “Terrible woman…”

The cigarette is stolen back, and Tom stares at him with the same hooded eyes, forcing a small smile on his kiss-bruised lips.

“What?”

He slides his fingers over the pale skin of Leon’s arm, leaning in to press words into his lips with a kiss, “Nothing.”

Breathed in his ear, “Tell me, Cherry.”

Tom smirks, lifting the corner of his lip as he closes his eyes, “You’re the only one…”

Leon tangles his fingers in his curls, and relaxes under him.

He’s probably Tom’s favourite client.

And there’s Daphne, a strict business woman with sharply-creased suits and wild hair. She likes fucking Tom with a 7-inch strap-on, holding him down and calling him filthy names which he moans at. He’s humiliated by her words and his cock throbs every time her smooth, manicured hand smacks his ass hard enough to leave a mark red like his matching lingerie.

Sometimes, afterwards while he’s sore, she orders them room service. They eat greasy nachos from the restaurant downstairs and watch TV together, a space between them on the bed. They make idle chat, Tom likes hearing about her stressful days, those days that she fucks him hard and rough, letting out her anger and frustration. They laugh at sitcoms, and sometimes, she’ll run her fingers through his curls.

“Your skin is perfect,” he whispers into her warm shoulder, watching her bare chest rise and fall, her skin dark and beautiful. He was almost envious, with his own freckled and pale complexion. He sunburnt to an inch of his life most of the time.

“Jealous?” She murmurs, turning her head to face him, and Tom peeks up at her shyly, like he always does.

She, like the others, love his innocent look. Jailbait, really.

“Always,” he whispers, and she smirks, her face visible by the city’s lights outside.

They share a small kiss, and he cups her jaw, savouring the taste of her lips, sweet like honeysuckle late at night.

When they part, he blushes, his voice small, “You’re the only one, you know…”

And for a moment, he thinks she’s bought it, until she looks a little unconvinced, “Really?”

“Yes,” he insists eagerly, taking her hand, even. She melts with just one look into wide and hopeful eyes, “I mean it.”

She lets Tom fuck her before she sends him off with a paid taxi, stuffing his red lace panties into her overnight bag.

Sometimes it’s too easy to please people. A set of skimpy lingerie and a pair of heels, and he makes one client purr. She calls him Rose, like Leon calls him Cherry. Tom pretends that it makes him special when he really knows the ugly truth.

He creates drama with another client, crying and yelling about being taken advantage of before locking himself in the bathroom of the hotel room, pretending to cry his pretty little eyes out. All for a 50-something who needed a spark in his life, and when he couldn’t get that from his distant wife, he took Tom in. Once, then twice, and now they’ve lost count. Dinners, shopping, little trips, sex with Viagra.

Stir some shit in the pot, and you’ve got another hooked.

He feels sorry for his old man, sometimes. He puts Richard through a lot of shit, pouting like a child when he doesn’t get his way, giving him the cold shoulder long enough Tom’s sure he’s given him frostbite. They make-up with a little kiss and Richard takes him shopping, smiling as he watches Tom try on every piece of clothing in the store.

“What about this?” He asks with bright eyes, grinning from ear-to-ear as he twirls for Richard.

The older man hums, pleased, with a well-aged smile behind his hand as he watches from his seat, “Lovely.”

“Like it was made for me!” Tom sighs, turning to the three mirrors to inspect himself in his lovely shirt and pants.

The look his client gives him is one all-too familiar, and Tom catches his eye in the reflection, smiling shyly and flicks his eyes down, like he knows Richard likes. His dexterous fingers begin to pop the buttons slowly, one by one, just before his navel, pink nipples peeking out—and that’s when Richard leaves his chair.

Before Tom leaves the hotel room, he presses his face into the warmth of Richard’s wrinkled button-up, closing his eyes to inhale the scent of spiced soap and the faintness of his cologne. He feels arms wrap around his waist, and Tom sighs happily, smiling as they sway gently to the music in his head.

“Kiss me,” he whispers into the soft fabric, and Richard tilts his chin up, connecting their soft mouths.

Tom sighs again, almost whimpers, as they pull away. He stares into the milk chocolate of his client’s eyes, and whispers, “You’re the only one, Richard, I swear…”

He falls so easily, this old man. He feels alive with such a younger lover, his Lolita. Tom wishes him a goodnight before leaving, feeling a coldness seep into his bones that no winter could cause.

Any man over fifty, no matter how nicely they treated him, always had Tom on edge. Perhaps that’s why he put Richard through so much. It’s his own little revenge.

Tom had come from a broken family, to say the least. He left his father’s house just after his sixteenth birthday, with a bag and a heavy coat, setting off to nowhere. He was homeless for six months, crashing on friend’s couches and department store beds until he was forced out. He couldn’t remember feeling so alone, like he was reaching out for help, yelling at the top of his lungs, yet no one heard. No one cared, that was that.

Until he met Frederick Van der Mere.

Frederick had been a wealthy man of sixty-six, without much family and a lot of money. A _lot_ of money. His skin was wrinkled and soft, his fingers bonier than Tom’s, and had a big, gold family ring on his right ring finger, fitted snug.

Tom remembers a lot about his time with him. Sleeping in his bed late at night, waking up to the sound of soft German being murmured across the room into the phone. He always wondered who was on the other end of the line, but he knew better than to ask. Frederick gave him everything within a week of meeting him, and could take it away even faster; money, food, clothes, shelter, expensive gifts and trips.

To put it simply, Tom had been his sugar baby.

Almost two years he shared a bed with a man that terrified him to his very core, but Tom loved him all the same. Fear is something he’s known his entire life, and every time Frederick pulled out his wallet or raised his hand, Tom took it as a kiss.

But, Frederick hadn’t always been abusive, not at the start.

Tom had been walking to his friend’s house late at night, having forgotten his things there before leaving for food, which left him in a t-shirt that was far too thin for an October night in London. A sleek, black car had pulled over beside him, and he kept walking, ignoring it in hopes of it driving away. A lot of tourists would pull over to ask for directions, and he wasn’t in the mood to talk to anyone.

It followed him for half a block before he finally glanced over, stopping in his tracks, and so did the car.

Curious, he approached it, just a step, and the rear black-tinted window rolled down smoothly. Thick cigar smoke rolled out from it, and he wrinkled his nose, catching sight of an old man sitting there, a gold ring glinting in the street lamp’s light.

A rough voice rolled out just as smoothly as the smoke, “How much for a night?”

Tom hadn’t been sure whether to be offended or not.

He was about to tell the old man off, insisting he wasn’t a rent boy, but a thought had crossed his mind before he could. Sick, disturbing thoughts that didn’t outweigh his given circumstances.

So, he blurted out a number, and the old man nodded to the other side of the car. Tom rushed to the other side as the window rolled up, forgetting all about his things.

Frederick liked his pretty face, liked the age difference, liked to pet Tom’s hair while he had the teen spread out over his furred chest. Tom clung to him tighter than plastic wrap, afraid that if he let go, he’d be left behind again. In the mornings, he’d be smacked on the ass to wake up, and they’d jet off somewhere on a private jet.

After a year, the novelty of everything began to wear off. Tom was given an allowance of almost ten grand a month, allowed to do whatever he wanted with it, and it was overwhelming. He usually didn’t spend much unless it was to gift something to Frederick, like skimpy lingerie that he’d wear while he let the older man watch Tom touch himself.

He had loved that at first, not being able to have sex, just to pleasure himself. Then it got boring. He didn’t want to do it anymore, he wanted Frederick to touch him. Frederick never did, unless it was to slap him into next week.

Tom often snuck away in the middle of the night to nurse a split lip, or dabbed concealer on a black eye in the morning. Frederick never hit hard enough to leave a mark or scar. Tom’s still not sure if he’s thankful or not.

Still, Tom didn’t know how he got so “lucky”. He didn’t know what his sugar daddy did to have so much money, aside from the odd overheard phone call, where he learnt that Frederick had shares somewhere and was only getting richer. He didn’t prod, didn’t ask, just sat pretty and did as he was told.

It was how he survived in a world full of pain.

And when he was 19, he was abandoned. Frederick called up a new friend, was connected to a few other people, and one morning while Tom was showering, he was pulled out and told to pack his things.

He had a panic attack right there, feeling like he couldn’t catch his breath while his eyes watered, watching Frederick through his clothes into a luggage bag through a blurred gaze.

He begged, pleaded to stay. He’d be good to him, wasn’t he a good boy? Had he done something bad?

Frederick’s family ring met his cheek, and he stopped talking.

Ashlie had taken him in, a man with overly tanned skin and lots of silver jewelry. Frederick had enough decency to set Tom up with someone before leaving him, but not enough to let him stay. Tom had been bitter for a long time.

The first time he met Ashlie was in LAX, waving at Tom from across the terminal, his teeth far too white but he was almost handsome.

“Hi, Tom?”

Tom had eyed him before nodding, quiet with his carry on and huge suitcase.

“Ashlie. It’s nice to meet you.”

His hand had been warm, almost clammy, but so was Tom’s.

Ashlie, as Tom later found out, was his pimp. His _boss_ , if that made it seem any better. Tom became an outcall escort at the age of 19, and because of his looks and inexperience, he was expensive. The more popular he became, and he did, the higher he put his prices. He was allowed to finance his own earnings, but had to give Ashlie a share, and was provided a furnished apartment in L.A., among other things.

It was an extravagant life, getting everything he wanted just for offering his body for pleasure, and at the same time, it was meaningless. There was no love, no matter how hard he tried to create it. He was lying constantly, acting certain ways to play certain clients, and they all _bought it_. Literally and figuratively. Tom thought himself a natural actor, as well as Ashlie.

Still, he had no friends. He talked to other escorts when the opportunity arose, but that wasn’t often. He was passed around like a doll, wearing a mask for others, pretending that he was fine with everything.

He began to numb himself around the time the beatings came the norm at home, around twelve. He had been deemed old enough to pull his own weight around the house, and when he didn’t--oh, boy. He can’t help but to flinch every time someone raises their hand to call a taxi.

Numbing was and is a routine, and it all started by closing his eyes. Whenever he was about to see a client, he prepared himself, knowing he would be used, and that was okay. It was his job. He was good at faking emotions and personas; a natural born actor. A real talent for his trade. When he got back from a client, if he wasn’t staying overnight, he’d run to the shower. His bathroom became a safe place, somewhere to be alone. Even though he was constantly alone, he wasn’t. It was confusing and he pulled his hair out over it.

And he didn’t cry. He didn’t like it. It made everything real.

He doesn’t like to think about it.

Instead, he tries to think that maybe, someday, he’ll be happy. Truly happy. Someday, he won’t have to fake his emotions and use people to get ahead in life. He’ll be real. He’ll be free.

He’ll be okay.

\--

The shower is his private little haven. Scrub away the shame, the filth, the dried sweat and semen that seems to have seeped into his pores despite the burning temperature and harsh scraping. He breathes hard, through his nose, blue eyes steadily watching his pale, freckled skin bloom with red under his wash cloth.

He stays in there for hours after a client, scrubbing and breathing, cleaning and cleaning. He shaves, everywhere, and resists the urge to cut his skin.

_You’re numb for a reason._

And this is his ritual: fuck the client, return home, shower for hours, smoke, and sleep it off. In summary.

He leaves the shower when the water runs cold, reaching blindly for the towel on the rack, and wraps it around his bony hips with delicate hands.

The worst part: wiping the fog from the mirror with a trembling hands, seeing himself stare back.

He stares, examines. Curly blond hair matted down from the shower, darkened to almost a light brown. High, rosy cheekbones trailing down to thin, pink lips.

He’s still a baby at almost twenty-one.

After patting his skin dry, he reaches under the sink and grabs his aftercare kit. Alcohol wipes, balm, bandages and the like. He disinfects anything and wraps a Band-Aid around his finger before going into his bedroom, dressing himself head to foot in pyjamas. He’s constantly naked, and he loves clothes, loves layers and covering up.

He was with Leon for only six hours tonight, ‘Cherry’ whispered and grunted into his ear over and over again as he was fucked, closing his eyes to focus on the burning pleasure he felt and nothing else.

Later, he eats leftovers on the balcony, with a lit cigarette dangling between his fingers. It’s fairly warm outside, but he curls his socked toes on the chair as he folds his long legs against his chest. He likes the sound of a busy city, of honking cars and unashamed curses from driver to driver below him. He watches it all pass with interest, wondering what people were doing or where they were going. Who they dated, who they fucked on the side. He wonders if he’ll ever see them in a hotel room.

He smokes another cigarette and watches the sun set behind the buildings, his hair drying with the breeze, until the curls are messy twirls. He puts his cigarette out on the side of the building and flicks it towards the little bucket in the corner, licking his lips to chase the taste of smoke.

His phone rings inside, so he unfolds himself and slides the screen open, shutting it softly behind him.

He glides across the hardwood floors and picks it up, “Hello?”

“Hey, Tom-Tom. It’s Ashlie.”

“Oh, hi,” he mumbles, pouting his lips a little, because hadn’t Ashlie called this morning?

“I have another client for you.”

Tom curls his lip with clear distaste, “Right _now_?”

“No, no—tomorrow evening. Listen, he’s a good friend of mine, so I want you to really take care of him, okay?”

Another man. At least it’s not tonight.

Tom walks to the kitchen, still pouting, “I always do. What’s his name?”

“His name’s Chris, but I made sure he was checked, and he’s clean, like the others. Another hotel, just bring yourself as you are, it’s probably going to be for a few hours, tops.”

Sounds simple enough.

“Oh—and he wants you to call him ‘Daddy’. That’s it.”

It never really is. Oh, well, Tom’s had worse.

Still, he sighs – loudly – and agrees to it. It’s his job, when will he ever not? He writes down the hotel and room number messily on the notepad attached to the fridge and wishes Ashlie a good night, muttering a rude name after he’s hung up.

_You’ll be okay._


	2. Eros and Apollo

Tom’s favourite thing to do is shut the lights and close the door and be left the fuck alone.

His heart aches. His head throbs. He hates this.

_Sleep. Take a nap. You’ll feel better._

But what if he doesn’t?

_What if you do?_

He wants to feel this. He wants to feel everything, he hates being numb. He loves every touch he receives, from lips or hands, it doesn’t matter. He likes _feeling_. Yet, still it hurts him.

When he’s home, he’s fine. He showers, smokes, eats, reads, takes care of himself as best he can. He’s raw like a nerve, open to every little emotion. And when he’s out, with a client, he feels nothing but the touches. The orgasms. The fucking. Having a cock shoved inside of him or shoving his own inside something warm and wet. He knows everything carnal, but nothing honest.

It’s hard to describe, sometimes. Another escort had asked him about his experiences, when he had a client cancel their appointment and he had been left alone in the bar of the hotel. She had come up to him, her long hair curled and resting against her shoulders. She was beautiful, with red lipstick and a tight yet modest dress.

“What’s it like to you?” She asked him over her second martini, sipping like the dainty thing she wasn’t. The bar wasn’t crowded or deserted, it was a steady stream of people that Tom liked, located downtown on a quiet Thursday night.

He was on his third rum and coke, and wasn’t anywhere near as tipsy to say anything, but he did, anyway.

“It’s…” he paused, licking his lips as he eyed the dark-stained bar, staring at it for a moment, “an artificial passion,” he finally muttered, not meeting her eye despite her gaze burning his face, “I feel everything, physically, but I’m…so, _so_ numb to everything else. I…I can close my eyes and everything fades and blurs together. It’s almost like I’m not in control, like it’s all subconsciously choreographed…” It was all just a game to him and his clients. It wasn’t real.

He finally looks over at her, and she looks sympathetic. Tom doesn’t know how to feel, so he doesn’t. He wishes her a good night after another hour of idle conversation, checking his pocket for his fake I.D. and cash before flagging down a taxi.

It was the first time he had ever opened up about it, his numbness, and when he got home, he threw up once the door closed. It had nothing to do with the alcohol.

He locked himself in his room for the rest of the night and most of the day. Slept and read his books, safe under the covers, where nothing could harm him. Time blurs together when he’s at home, and before he knew it, his alarm goes off and he had to get ready to see Richard.

Slipping into character is one of the easiest things he can do. He puts on a mask of a happily spoiled little boy, untouchable with a little smirk or perfected pout. Richard eats it up eagerly, like a baby with grabby hands. He loves the little whimpers and kitten mewls Tom makes while his cock is sucked. It’s a favour in return for lunch and a small shopping trip.

Tom spit from disgust and habit.

When he leaves the hotel, it’s like a veil is lifted from his eyes, and he’s back. He takes a cab home and brushes his teeth three times, wanting the taste of old cock from his mouth. It’s not the first time, either.

He decides to eat before going to see Chris, bakes chicken breast and prepares spinach while he wonders about his new client. He doesn’t know much at all, but if he’s a friend of Ashlie’s, he must be rich, and perhaps he’s young. Anyone younger than Richard or Frederick is gold, really.

The hotel Tom arrives at is large and extravagant, decorated with marble floors and gold elevators. He feels out of place in his casualwear, surrounded by cocktail dresses and sharp suits and endless chatter. He rushes to the elevator and presses his finger to the button, waiting patiently despite his fluttering stomach as he enters the opening doors.

_Remember the facts: friend of Ashlie, probably rich, and most importantly, daddy. Play your part._

Tom checks his reflection as he as he waits for the long trip up, pushing his curls back between his fingers and nibbling his lips to plump them. He smooths the wrinkles out of his dark-blue shirt, rubs the toe of his shoe against the other to scrape off a small clump of dirt.

There. Presentable.

He reads the door numbers as he passes them down the hall, repeatedly murmuring the correct one under his breath, and stops just outside of it. His fist reaches up without realizing it, knocking his pink knuckles against the wood gently enough for Chris to hear him.

He waits with bated breath.

There’s murmuring behind the door before the handle turns and it opens, revealing a tall man talking on the phone.

He’s wearing dark suit pants with a white tucked-in dress shirt, both fitted incredibly snug. His hair is a dark blond, slicked back by a mix of his fingers and a fine-toothed comb. Piercing blue eyes surrounded by long, thick eyelashes scan over Tom before he tilts his head, an unspoken ‘come in’ despite the soft Spanish rumbling from his chest.

Tom’s never had a _type_ before.

Still, he enters the room when Chris moves to the side, casting his gaze around with some interest. The bed is large, probably a King-size, and it looks like it hasn’t been touched since the housekeepers last cleaned. The first filmy curtain is drawn over the window, but the city lights still filter through. He notices Chris’ suit jacket and tie tossed onto the sofa nearby carelessly, like he was stressed and just wanted to breathe. The bathroom door across the room is almost closed, the light switched off.

Two small wall lamps by the bed are the only sources of light inside the room, making it cozier than Tom is used to, giving it an orange-yellow tone.

He eyes the white, fluffed pillows with pursed lips as the door closes behind him, Chris still murmuring into his phone as he passes Tom, taking his hand smoothly to lead them towards the bed. Tom can’t help but to follow, having been caught off his carefully prepared guard. He’s in between feeling comfortable and on edge.

Chris sits on the edge of the bed and looks up at him, saying a quick, annoyed ‘ _si_ ’ three times in a row. Tom watches him closely, watches the way his fuller lips move around certain words and battling accents. It’s strange; he can’t place it. Instead, he lifts his hand and cups Chris’ jaw, smoothing the pad of his thumb over the two-day stubble there.

He is a handsome man with lines of worry faint in his forehead and a smile soft on his mouth. He isn’t as young as Tom had hoped, definitely over thirty, but it’s…nice. Unexpectedly.

Tom’s never had a client like him before. It’s almost startling with how different he is from the norm.

He rips his hand away as if burnt when Chris ends the phone call abruptly with a sharp ‘ _más tarde_ ’, tossing the delicate device towards the pillows as he turns his full attention to the boy in front of him, staring up at Tom for a moment longer.

His voice is deep and soft as he murmurs, “Hello, sweetheart.”

He’s an Australian with a hint of a Spanish accent. How ridiculous.

_Sweet, shy, and coy tonight. Obedience and submission. Be a good boy, now._

Tom puts up his walls as he curves his mouth into a small smile and murmurs back a shy, “Hi, daddy…” while flicking his eyes away.

A happy little purr sounds from Chris as he places his hands on Tom’s waist, drinking in the sight before him with his eyes. _Sweet little boy_. Tom tenses under his touch, shivers when cold fingertips slip under his shirt, excited by the contrast of cold and warm.

He remembers hearing somewhere that cold hands mean a warm heart.

But, he doesn’t reflect for long; those cold hands leave and then Chris is gently telling him, “Take off your clothes for me,” while he begins to carefully remove his cuff links.

Tom obeys, pulls off his shirt as smoothly as he can despite his natural clumsiness, unbuttoning his tight jeans and peeling them from his thin legs, kicking them away with his socks. He hooks his fingers in his boxer-briefs and pauses, glancing back up at Chris.

The man raises a brow, and Tom pulls them down. He resists the urge to wrap his arms around himself as he steps out of them, to hide. He clenches his fists by his sides instead.

_Perfect boy._

Chris leans back and admires the smooth planes of Tom’s chest and stomach, his milky skin dotted with little moles and freckles, especially heavy around his joints and shoulders. Tom keeps his breathing as steady as he can despite his nerves.

“What’s your name?” Chris asks in his rumbling voice, beckoning Tom forward with a nod to his lap.

Tom crawls onto it, straddling his client’s thighs and wrapping his arms around broad, muscled shoulders. He’s always loved the feeling of a warm clothed body against his own naked one. He mutters his names slowly, as if tasting them for the first time, “Cherry…Rose…Lolita…”

Chris makes a face, wrinkling his nose a little, “Your real name.”

“Tom.” No flourish, no sweetness, just plain, plain Tom.

“Thomas?” Chris’ hands wander over his skin, and Tom breaks out in goose bumps, stuttering a little ‘yes’. Chris hums, and Tom ducks his chin to press a sweet little kiss to his lips, testing.

And Chris’ lips are warm, soft, firm. The scent of his cologne makes Tom dizzy in seconds, his eyes closing as he prepares himself for use.

When he opens them again, just a little, Chris is pressing him into the mattress with his weight, still kissing him softly. Tom resists the urge to melt into it, instead moves his idle fingers from Chris’ back to his shirt’s buttons, slipping them through the stitched holes. He’s been dying to see the rest of that chest; two undone buttons always tease him.

He feels Chris’ chest once the shirt is open enough, slides his palms and fingers over hair-dusted muscles and stiff little nipples, moaning softly as Chris sucks on his lip gently. His skin is warm, his stomach is toned and tight, with a little trail of hair disappearing into where Tom can’t fit his hand just yet.

“Please, daddy,” he whispers breathlessly, turning his face to speak, and Chris lifts himself up to shrug off his shirt. Tom watches him from the bed, biting on his fingernail as he watches with hooded eyes. He feels disconnected with himself, but not to the lust that he’s used to.

Chris puts his hands on his belt, but stops and thinks for a moment before lifting his head, his smirk infuriating as he asks, “Want to do it for me?”

Tom nods without knowing and sits up, reaching out to grab Chris’ belt buckle and pulls him forward, expertly pulling the belt apart and sliding it from the loops. The bulge at the front of Chris’ pants stops him when he brushes his wrist over it, and his mouth waters.

“Keep going, baby,” Chris murmurs, watching Tom with soft, darkened eyes.

He does, unbuttons his trousers and pulls the zipper down, backing off when Chris stands to remove them. Chris’ Calvin Klein’s are just as snug as the rest of his clothing, his cock trapped underneath the onyx fabric.

Tom reaches out again, desperate and wanting when his client is naked, a breathless, “Oh, _daddy_ ,” tumbling from his lips. Chris’ cock is flushed and hard and thick, dark blond hair trimmed neatly to match the small trail from below his navel and the same dusting his chest. He feels like the boy he is compared to this man, and flushes at his own smoothly-shaven body.

Chris’ responding grin is pearly white and a little shy, one that startles Tom, breaking him from his usual trace for a moment before he closes his eyes again as their skin touches. He has to stay numb.

The man is warm between his thighs, large and solid, an assuring weight he’s never felt before. He welcomes the hungry kiss pressed against his lips, enjoys being devoured by this man’s lust with every touch of his tongue.

Tom blocks everything out but the mouth on his jaw, his neck, his collarbones and chest. He arches his back for show when a warm mouth finds a nipple, and moans in the back of his throat, like he has many times, as if on autopilot.

He locks his ankles behind Chris, squeezes him gently between his knees, and giggles as Chris’ beard scratches his stomach. It draws out a soft chuckle from Chris, too.

“Daddy, let me touch you,” he whispers, opening his eyes, feeling too attended to when it was _his_ job to please his client.

Chris kisses his mouth again, short little pecks in between the longer, lung-burning ones. Tom’s dizzy again when Chris begins to manhandle him into a new and weird position. His head is nearly hanging off the edge of the bed while Chris props one leg up on the bed, the other steady on the floor. His cock is near Tom’s face, and _oh_ , now he understands.

“Suck me while I eat you out, okay, baby?”

_God, yes._

“Yes, daddy…”

He closes his eyes again with the first lick to the head, and he’s gone.

He feels warmth. A slick tongue, sliding over his cock and balls, tickling his perineum and tasting the furl of his entrance. He opens his mouth and welcomes the weight of Chris on his tongue, the musky scent of him burning into his memory. Tom moans, not out of habit, and chokes a few times, genuinely. Chris rewards him with a harsh suck.

"Oh, daddy, _oh,_ " Tom breathes as he tilts his head over the edge of the bed, his face twisted in pleasure as Chris' slick tongue slides into him, "Mm, please..." The 'more' dies on his lips, turning into a breathy gasp.

The wet tip of Chris' cock slides against his lips, and he takes the spongy head into his mouth, sucking and licking frantically, trying to give back just as much as he was receiving. His efforts are fruitless, although Chris was almost slipping into his throat again. He can hear Chris moaning, too, and the sudden feeling of a wad of slick spit against his entrance startles him.

“Daddy--…” He’s hard, achingly so, with his hole as wet as a cunt, dripping down his crack and onto the bed, surely.

“I’m here, baby,” Chris rumbles, nipping his skin, “What do you want?”

His eyes glaze over once more and he whimpers about wanting his fingers inside of him. Chris obliges, his dry fingers burning as they slip inside, and Tom closes his eyes again to focus on the pressure, the rubbing and sliding, the weight returned to his tongue as he moans around Chris’ thickness.

And it’s all routine from there. One finger, two fingers, three, and Chris rolls on a condom before patting Tom’s ass playfully, telling him to get onto all fours. He settles onto his elbows instead, buries his face into the bed as he spreads his knees wide, moaning as Chris’ hands wander up his back and he presses his cock against his hole, teasing by rubbing the head against it.

“Please…”

“Beg for it.”

“Daddy—,” he hiccups, for show, and continues breathlessly with a whine, “Daddy, please give it to me…please fuck me, I need it so bad, daddy it’s so embarrassing—”

Chris stops rubbing against him, his grip hard on Tom’s hips, “What is?” He bends forward and kisses Tom’s shoulder gently, sweetly, and Tom hesitates, “What’s embarrassing?”

Tom gapes into the bedding, unable to find his voice, until he gasps, “Me…I want it so bad…”

And Chris mutters into his skin, soft and delicate, “Don’t be embarrassed, baby…”

Tom’s scared of how sincere he sounds. Leon and Daphne have dirty mouths when they fuck him, say lewd things and do worse. It’s an act for them, and for a second, Tom worries that Chris doesn’t know how to play along.

Surely he does. An escort is a fantasy that you pay for. Nothing more.

Tom squeezes his eyes shut tight and whispers, “Please fuck me…”

His client doesn’t argue.

And Chris is _big_. Tom feels himself stretch around him, gasps wetly into the bed as he’s spread open, filled in the way he really needs. He claws at the bed, twists his fingers in sheets until they cramp, and _finally_ he stops.

Tom is shaking and sweating, his muscles twitching gently to keep himself up. Chris’ hands soothe his skin, his lips trail over his back and neck, nuzzling sweaty little curls with the tip of his nose. It’s disgustingly sweet and Tom knows he’s ruined.

How dare he.

“ _Fuck_ me,” Tom nearly growls, wanting it rough, wanting it so deep that he can feel it for the next little while. He can’t stand the slow, gentle pace anymore. He’ll crawl out of his skin if it continues.

Chris chuckles, softly and infuriatingly, and sucks a mark onto his neck as his hips move gently back and forth. Just the smallest movements has Tom moaning and he tilts his head, wanting teeth but getting lips instead. He pushes back, but the pace stays the same.

He’s not used to not getting what he wants.

He wants to lash out, to scream that _no, this isn’t how you fuck someone_ , but he doesn’t. He just takes and takes and takes, because he’s always giving and never receiving.

Chris surely has ruined him.

“Daddy…” he whispers, feelings tears in his eyes like usual, passing it off as a sign of pleasure while he turns his head to breathe. Chris is slick against him, his hips moving faster, grabbing Tom’s hips and thighs and waist, wanting leverage as he lifts himself up to finally give his boy what he wants.

Tom closes his eyes to feel Chris inside him, and opens them when he’s pulled up by hands on his shoulders, placing his head on the blond’s shoulder as Chris holds his wrists straight down by his sides and _fucks_ him. Tom gasps and shudders at the angle, his thighs quaking as his prostate is nudged and rubbed, his cock spitting precome down the length of it as he bites his lips.

And he’s gonna come, he feels it building, feels his balls tighten in warning—and Chris pushes him back onto the bed, slipping out not a moment later.

“Daddy!” Tom sobs, his face and eyes wet with tears, and rolls onto his back when rough hands turn his hips. He stares up at Chris, his eyes glazed and wet, hiccupping softly and flinching as the Aussie spreads his legs again.

“I’m here,” Chris murmurs, lowering himself onto Tom carefully, resting his weight on one arm as the other goes to smooth back golden curls, “Shh, baby, don’t cry…I’ll care take of you, don’t worry…”

Tom stares, his eyes fighting to stay open to see that kind, worrisome face. His gaze flickers and Chris moves down his body, pushing Tom’s legs to bend them into his chest, exposing him. He licks into his pretty boy again, tasting him, and Tom mewls gently, closing his eyes.

He doesn’t know how long Chris eats him out, this time slowly and gently. He doesn’t suck on his puckered skin, kisses it instead and it makes Tom’s gut squirm pleasantly. He gasps out ‘daddy’ again and again before reaching down, sliding his fingers through Chris’ carefully done hair, wanting to pull him closer and push him away at the same time. He just holds the soft strands between his fingers, biting his lip.

When Chris surfaces, kissing his hipbones and navel, Tom feels wet and too close to coming. He tugs Chris up by his hair and kisses him, hungry and desperate, no wanting to be the prone little toy anymore.

Still, Chris sits back and pulls Tom into his lap, “Stay down,” he orders softly when Tom tries to sit up, but he just lays back and allows Chris to take control again, his nerves simmering. He’s fucked slowly again, but his cock is tugged harshly, fast with a tight grip, and Tom arches off the bed as he comes with a loud shout.

And like always, there’s that bliss, that high that he seeks out. He feels lazy and dreamy, sleepy, and barely notices Chris slipping out. He turns his head to watch him, a dazed look on his face as he watches Chris slip the condom off and move close to his face.

He lifts his chin and closes his eyes, rubbing his hands over his own messy stomach, purring as he feels hot ropes of white streak his face. Chris moans above him, squeezing and milking himself as Tom sighs, licking the spill from his lips as he opens his eyes.

Chris stares down at him with soft eyes, with a look of affection Tom’s only ever seen once, from his best friend in school. It’s an honest tenderness that, like before, overwhelms and squeezes Tom’s chest.

And Chris kisses him again, with a slow, syrupy passion that makes Tom want to run away.

\--

He can’t and doesn’t, not right away.

Chris pulls him into the bathroom, having that glow only someone can have after they haven’t fucked in a while. Tom wonders how long it’s been, but doesn’t ask. Instead he takes the warm cloth that’s offered to him and wipes his face clean, blushing a little when Chris makes a certain remark about it.

“Warm or hot?” Chris asks as he fiddles with the shower’s controls, and Tom feels the blood rush from his face.

He never showers with anyone else. He can’t. Especially with a client.

“I’m not taking one,” he mutters, turning away and wiping at his flat stomach, trying to wipe away his shame.

Chris laughs humourlessly, “Yes, you are. We’re filthy.”

Tom almost panics, but bottles it up quickly, his tone suddenly too harsh for the sweet-faced angel he was supposed to be, “I said I’m not taking one.”

The only sound in the room is the echo of falling water, and Tom tosses the cloth onto the sink with a huff, avoiding the burning stare in the mirror.

“Fine,” Chris says, his voice soft, and Tom tenses a little when he feels the man at his back, breathing down his neck gently. He presses his lips together and turns around, lifting his chin to look up at the other.

Chris reaches up to cup his jaw, but Tom pushes it away, his eyebrows knitting in frustration.

_Stop that._

Blue eyes stare into his face, Chris’ eyebrows furrowing as his voice drops even lower, if possible, “What’s wrong?”

_I mean it. Don’t you dare fuck this up any more than you already have._

Tom clenches his jaw and closes his eyes, taking half a moment before he opens them again and looks up meekly, “I’m sorry, daddy…”

Chris’ face twists into an arched brow and an amused smirk, “You can drop the ‘daddy’ thing, Thomas. I just wanted it for sex.”

He stands there, bewildered, as Chris gently pinches his chin between his forefinger and thumb affectionately, before going towards the steamy shower, “If you’re not getting in, then…”

The unspoken ‘let yourself out’ is heard clearly.

Tom hesitates.

And then he panics, slightly. He leaves his spot with his bare feet padding gently along the tiled floor, becoming silent as he meets the carpet of the main room, the sound of the shower almost distant now.

He swipes his underwear from the floor and pulls on his pants, his hands shaking as he plucks his shirt from the floor, as well. He barely puts on his socks and shoes before he’s out the door, checking his pockets just as the door locks shut behind him.

His phone.

_Shit._


	3. You Know I'm No Good

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Tanqueray, first and foremost, is a London Dry Gin. It's distilled in Scotland, and has been made more or less in its current incarnation since the 1830s. It is a classic and as expected it has a strong bite of juniper with a hint of acidic sharpness. Its not that the acid hearkens to any specific citrus fruit, but it is there, ready to be accentuated in the right cocktail. But it is sharp and does not go down smoothly. "

Tom doesn’t know much about the flight or fight response, doesn’t know what part of the brain it’s in or why it happens, but he knows he’d rather flee from danger than face it with an unconvincing brave face.

And it’s exactly what he did once his heart dropped to his stomach upon feeling his empty pocket. He left his spot outside Chris’ hotel room, flustered in a panic, and went home. His hair was becoming oily from his fingers as they brushed through his curls, biting his fingernails as he waited in the back of a cab. The ride home was too long for his liking, leaving him jittery and in need of a cigarette.

He’s shaken up. This has never happened before, he has never made such a stupid mistake. Especially with a new client. He licks and bites his lips behind his fingers, watching out the window as he reflected on the evening with Chris. It’s easy to remember the beginning and end, but the middle is always fuzzy. A handsome grin, softly spoken words of encouragement and affection, the odd feeling of…protection. A certain kind of protection Tom has never felt.

It was all a part of the game, though. Surely. He knew absolutely nothing about Chris, other than the daddy kink and confusing affection, and there’s no way you can know someone just by touching their body, surely. Chris is no different to him than the other one-night-clients he’s had before.

But that same man is currently, and unknowingly, in possession of his cell phone.

Oh, what was he to do?

\--

He stays in the shower, curled up in the corner, breathing in the heavy steam and ignoring the hot water nearly burning his skin. He eyes the floor with an empty gaze, rubbing his lower lip against his bony kneecap, slowly, methodically, and it calms him.

_You’re fine. It’ll be okay. Don’t worry._

He’s washed away most of the shame from his skin, scrubbed off the kisses from his neck and chest, but the love bites and memories remain. Is he still dirty? Has he gotten everywhere Chris had touched? Tom sneaks a hand between his thighs and presses his finger against the furled muscle there, closing his eyes as he feels the tip sink inside slowly.

He pulls his hand away and rinses it under the water, frowning at the porcelain below him as he curls up once more.

He’d told Ashlie that he had forgotten his phone over a simple, to-the-point email. He had an emergency disposable phone tucked away in his bedside table, but he wasn’t in the mood to talk. He’d endure the yelling he knew would come, and get his phone back or receive a new one in a few days. He’ll forget that this ever happened, and he’ll never have to see Chris again. He’ll go back to being Leon’s Cherry and Daphne’s Rose and Richard’s Lo.

Easy-peasy.

\--

Tom’s never been yelled at over email before. It’s an odd experience, almost like a self-induced punishment of sorts, forcing himself to read the backlash consisting of insults to his intellect and common sense. It could have been easily avoided, yet he read on.

As Ashlie points out various times in the email, losing his phone means no contact between his clients and Tom, which would make them worry and anxious if cut off for too long. Tom was there to soothe them in any way by any means necessary. He was their fantasy that took them away from their mundane world for a night and a price. He was worth every penny, but not when they had no way to contact him. It was a bad place to be.

_There’s nothing you can do now. At least you won’t have to send nude pictures to Richard tonight._

That’s always a bonus.

Nevertheless, he’s told to go back to the hotel tomorrow and pick up his phone from the front desk. Apparently Chris had called Ashlie to let him know what had happened when he found the phone near the bed, and the Aussie was to check out tomorrow morning. He would leave it there for him, unharmed. How nice.

Despite the nagging anxiety and panic, Tom slept soundly that night, buried under a mountain of blankets and his window wide open, sweating heavily and not caring. He preferred being hot than cold, weirdly liked the smell of fresh sweat, something musky and personal. It reminds him of sex, the good kind, when it’s hot and wet, nothing but sticky skin sliding together. The kind he had with Chris.

For the first time in a long while, Tom dreams. He dreams of a tall blond, kissing him gently and whispering sweet, incoherent things into his ear. The hands sliding over his skin are invisible but warm and rough, pulled from his subconscious where he can’t remember.

Tom tries not to dwell on it much the next morning, when he’s sitting up in his bed fuzzy-eyed and dying for tea.

He skips breakfast and goes to the hotel right away, looking around nervously as he walks through the revolving doors. The lobby isn’t nearly as full as it was last night, a few people lingering about and talking in quiet voices.

It’s like they _know_ he’s a whore, can smell it on him like a bitch in heat.

He rushes to the front desk and politely asks if there was a phone left behind for anyone. The lady shakes her head, but requests his name.

“Tom,” he supplies, unsure.

“Thomas?”

His lips purse, but he nods, feeling butterflies in his stomach.

“Check in the lounge, your phone should be there.”

_\--_

Once he pushed that frosted glass door open, Tom knew his fate was sealed.

There, in a quiet little corner across the room, was Chris. He wore a suit, again, but looked even more handsome than last night. His hair is combed and gelled to perfection, and in his hand is a glass of clear liquid with a lime wedge resting on a bed of ice. He’s sitting comfortably, leisurely, like he has all the time in the world.

Tom makes his way over slowly, painfully aware of how young he looks in the nearly-empty bar. There’s no need to be embarrassed, yet he is. He doesn’t look Chris in the eye until he’s a few feet away, and begins to feel a little hot while he watches Chris’ eyes wander up his body. The man’s gaze flicks to the chair across from his, tilting his head a little, and Tom takes the silent invitation despite knowing his best interest was in not doing so.

“Thomas,” Chris murmurs pleasantly from behind his glass, resting the rim against his mouth.

Tom shifts in his seat and murmurs back a tense little ‘Chris’.

The Aussie takes a sip of his drink and Tom glances over at the clock on the wall, noting the time and wondering why Chris was drinking before noon. Maybe he’s an alcoholic.

“What are you drinking?” He asks, out of habit.

“Tanqueray and tonic.”

Tom nearly wrinkles his nose with his distaste. Tanqueray is gross, it barely mixes well with anything.

“Here,” Tom looks back at his client and watches as Chris pulls his cell phone from inside his suit jacket, handing it to him easily. Tom takes it back – their fingers brush – and presses the button at the bottom, scrolling through the notification previews. All of his clients had text and called.

“You’re a busy boy,” Chris hums as he sets his drink down, “It was going off all night. I barely slept.”

Tom doesn’t glance up at him while he opens his phone with four taps to the screen, “That’s too bad.”

Chris’ soft laughter perks his interest, and he glances up from his phone, watching how easy Chris’ smile is and how white his teeth are.

“Not even an ounce of guilt, hmm?”

Guilt is something Tom is familiar with, and what he feels now is definitely not it. He mutters back a soft ‘no’ and returns to his phone, knowing his cheeks are flushed. He pretends not to notice how Chris watches him with that same soft smile from last night. Tom hates being stared at.

Their silence stretches between two sips of Chris’ cocktail. Tom feels the urge to leave, but he can’t seem to leave his spot from across the other man.

“Hungry?” Chris asks softly, suddenly, and Tom shakes his head despite his cramping stomach. He hasn’t eaten since last night.

“You look it.”

Tom sends a reply to Leon, promising to meet him later, muttering, “Just because I look like something doesn’t mean I am.”

“Yes, you would know that the best, wouldn’t you?” Chris mumbles, tracing a bead of condensation down the side of his glass.

There had been no venom or malice in Chris’ voice, just a hint of curiosity, but Tom flicked his gaze up and stared at him with knitted brows, anger beginning to simmer beneath his skin.

“What the hell does that mean?” He snaps quietly despite knowing _exactly_ what Chris had meant, his voice gentle and his jaw clenching.

Chris’ eyebrows jump in interest, and he shrugs in reply, which only infuriates Tom more.

The thing is, Tom knows he’s a liar. He’s made a living off it, throwing fake smiles here and there and whispering little white lies between the bed sheets at night, but it still stings when people catch him. It’s his only shame, and having Chris pick up on it so quickly and easily pisses him off.

Chris is waking up emotions he hasn’t felt in seemingly forever.

Their silence is long, again, but a little tense this time around. Tom sits back with his arms crossed over his chest, glancing around the empty lounge as Chris watches him. It grates on his nerves, and Tom can feel himself becoming flustered again, not understanding why the _hell_ Chris keeps staring at him like that.

“You’re quick to temper, aren’t you?”

_He’s a fucking idiot._

“You think?” Tom drawls in annoyance, wishing he had ordered a drink when he first sat down. Chris’ mere presence makes him crave the burn of liquor.

His client smirks and takes the final sip from his glass, swallowing it easily, “I’m sorry.”

Tom nearly scoffs and glares at a painting across the room, “No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I am.”

“You’re smirking,” Tom pouts, biting a piece of skin from the inside of his lip. He tastes blood when he glances back at Chris again.

That smirk is gone, and Chris shifts in his seat, looking quite honest as he says, “I can’t help it.”

Tom doesn’t know whether or not to believe him. Not with just this, but with everything. Chris is, from what he knows, a dangerous man. Ashlie had semi-warned him about his ‘friend’ before coming here last night, and now Tom wants to know exactly _what_ makes Chris so dangerous. It’s a bad bit of curiosity to have, amongst other things.

“Are you sure you’re not hungry?”

“I’m sure.” Tom deflects the offer again, wondering what to do about his newfound interest in the Aussie.

While he’s thinking, Chris’ phone goes off, and Tom watches him quietly as the blond excuses himself before answering it in quiet Spanish.

An Australian who knows Spanish. He doesn’t _look_ Spanish, despite the tan. His eyes are too blue, and his face is too…something. Perhaps he’s a pimp, too? He certainly doesn’t dress like one. Ashlie’s flashy jewelry doesn’t match up with Chris’ sharp suit, nor his seemingly caring personality. The only sort of protection Ashlie’s ever displayed is when he threatens to harm any of Tom’s clients. Then again, Chris has only returned his phone and offered to take him for food, so Tom can’t label him ‘kind’ just yet.

_Labels are easy. People aren’t._

Perhaps he’s a CEO? His Rolex _screams_ luxury, snug on his wrist and peeking out of his sleeve just enough to tease. He doesn’t like to be flashy, from the looks of things. Just put-together. Clean and in control of himself. Tom realizes how his baggy t-shirt must look compared to the man across from him, how much he sticks out from everything and how easily Chris blends in. It’s intimidating, Tom is out of his element, because _he_ always fits in, he’s adaptable like no other.

He can’t shake the uneasiness he feels around the older man.

Chris hangs up and gives him an apologetic look, “I have to go, Thomas.”

“Work?” Tom murmurs, baiting him like he has the others.

Chris smirks and says nothing, just shifts in his seat to make sure he has everything on him before standing. “It was nice seeing you again, sweetheart,” he says quietly, his voice painfully sincere again, and Tom stands, too. Chris has about three inches on him.

A smile appears on Chris’ face again, and he lifts his hand, gently pinching Tom’s chin with the side of his curled forefinger and thumb before leaving with a small adjustment of his suit jacket, disappearing through the frosted glass door.

Tom watches him go, reaching up and dragging the back of his hand against his chin, as if to wipe away the small repeated affection.

**

_Cherry, Cherry, Cherry. Sweetest Cherry._

Fumbling kisses and soft giggles, his arms wrapping around broad shoulders as his legs squeeze a firm body between them. He licks into the other’s mouth and moans softly at the returned action, reaching down between them to massage the bulge between Leon’s legs, smug at the playful growl he receives.

When he’s thrown onto the bed, panting and eager, they hear the front door.

Tom’s heart leaps up into his throat and he snaps out of his trance, pressing his hands against his client’s chest as they pause and listen.

She’s supposed to be at work. She’s not supposed to come home until five. She never comes home for lunch, Cherry. Relax. You know this.

_It’s been almost a year, you do know this. You can pretend she doesn’t exist as much as you want, but you can’t deny facts, and the fact is that his wife is walking down the hall._

There’s heels clicking on the hallway floor and a suspicious, feminine voice calling out “Leon…?”

Tom only begins to push his client away when Melanie walks into the room, catching them in the act that’s so cliché. Melanie’s house keys fall to the floor and Tom jumps from the bed, like a cat out of a bath.

There’s yelling and screaming, things are thrown, and despite Leon’s attempts at consoling and calming her, Melanie’s fist kisses Tom’s face and guarantees a bruise like a lipstick mark. She calls him all the names he knows already, and hurls a vicious ‘fag’ at her husband. The sudden adrenaline keeps the pain away, and Tom manages to grab his shirt and shoes before any more harm is done. He crashes into the wall as he leaves the room, Leon and Melanie’s voices growing distant as he pulls his shirt on in the hallway, the shock driving him out of the house while barely hearing the screen door _bang_ shut behind him on squeaky hinges.

He slips his shoes on as he gets to the sidewalk and makes his way down the street, grabbing his phone from his pocket with shaking hands. Ashlie needs to know, needs to sort everything out, needs to fix it.

He gently presses against the tender skin under his eye—and hisses at the sting it results in. Shit. Fuck. Melanie busted his face up good. And when his face is busted up, he can’t see any clients. It ruins the illusion of everything he’s created, the act that Tom covets, and he’ll lose money.

Ashlie is going to be pissed.

\--

And he is.

Tom sits in his pimp’s kitchen, holding a bag of frozen peas to his left eye as Ashlie bitches about clients and how untrustworthy they can be. He mentions the client from ’98 and Tom blocks him out, closing both eyes as he focuses on the throbbing blossoming behind his eye. Pain makes him feel so alive. It’s toxic to him, the constant ache it creates.

“Don’t worry, Tommy, I’ll set Leon straight. You won’t have to deal with him anymore.”

Tom hates being called Tommy just as much as he does Thomas.

Chris calls him Thomas.

Not the point – Ashlie was planning on breaking Leon’s arm and he needs to not let that happen, even though the asshole does deserve it.

“Why don’t you just scare him instead?” He mumbles, opening his eyes to look at his boss, who was grabbing a beer from his fridge.

“What good does that do?” Ashlie mumbles as he pulls open a drawers and fishes around noisily, “Yeah, I can scare him, but that won’t do much if he wants to try a second chance with you. A broken arm, on the other hand…” The cap of the bottle comes off with a hiss, the opener tossed back into the drawer and forgotten.

Tom drops the frozen bag onto the table and grabs his phone, opening up the camera and flipping it to see himself, “He lost his wife and lover at the same time,” oh, it was already bruising, “He’s also probably been kicked out by now, and half of his stuff will be doused in bleach and the other half burned. A broken arm is overkill at this point.”

Ashlie’s following silence means Tom won. He can play his boss almost as good as his clients.

The brunet takes a pull of his beer and sighs loudly, settling down across the table with a soft, “I suppose you’re right.”

It’s enough for Tom.

**

It’s hard avoiding his clients like this, brushing off their invitations and making empty promises. Daphne is stressed and Richard is missing his little Lolita. Tom gets a few solid days of rest and relaxation, which he spends fully dressed head-to-toe and on the balcony, enjoying the cooling air with two packs of smokes waiting to be opened. Both are gifts from Richard, given almost a month ago. One strawberry flavoured from somewhere in Europe and the other menthol.

He tries the strawberry flavour the next evening, watching Netflix on his laptop on the balcony and enjoying the breeze caressing his face. He’s impressed with the taste, artificial strawberries with nicotine is an interesting mix. He likes them, and smokes two more before settling back to watch the sunset. The evening is his favourite part of the day, although he loves sunrises, too. The colours of the sky are what he loves most. The pinks, purples, blues, greens, oranges.

Like his love, they’re fleeting, and Tom enjoys it while he can.

\--

Four days after getting his phone back, Ashlie calls him just as he’s opening a tub of vanilla bean ice cream.

“Chris wants to see you again.”

Tom’s speechless for a moment with a spoon in his hand, frozen, before he shouts, “My face is fucked!” As if it’s a good excuse, which it is, but Ashlie doesn’t seem to see it that way.

“I can’t let you refuse an extra five grand in your pocket, Tom, on top of what he’s already offered. Especially after what happened with Leon. You need the money.”

_An extra five grand?_

He’s right. The fucker is right, and Tom hates him for it.

He drops the spoon noisily and runs his fingers through his curls, squeezing his eyes shut as he grips his hair tightly in his fist. After a moment of, he grits out a frustrated, “When?”

“Tonight. I’ll text you the rest.”

Tom hangs up without another word and goes to shower the three-day stink off his body.


	4. Pretty Down To Your Bones

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “I've lived a lot of different lives  
> Been different people many times  
> I live my life in bitterness  
> And fill my heart with emptiness
> 
> And now I see, I see it for the first time,  
> There is no crime in being kind  
> Not everyone is out to screw you over.  
> Maybe, oh just maybe they just wanna get to know ya”  
> Fear and Loathing ~ Marina & the Diamonds

 

The skin under his eye is beginning to turn a ruddy colour, thankfully, with a bit of yellow around the edges. Frozen peas have been his best friend for the past few days, and he had hoped not to see anyone for at least a week so it could clear up nicely. No such luck.

Carefully, with a light finger, Tom tapped concealer onto the bruise. He was no stranger to this, covering up someone else’s anger on his face. He hated looking at himself in the mirror, always with a criticising eye. He was too bony here and there, too pale everywhere. Freckles on freckles.

“Your self-confidence is outstanding, Tom,” he mumbles aloud as he shaves his jaw, pausing after a moment. Only crazy people talk to themselves.

He needs to get out of his apartment.

\--

While endless movies at his fingertips had been lovely, nothing could compare to being surrounded by thousands of strangers while walking down an L.A. sidewalk. There was something hypnotic about being anonymous, blending into a crowd and not being known at all.

The hotel he arrives at is different from the previous one, but looked almost the same. The lobby was full of high class folk and Tom swerved around them to get to the elevators, muttering ‘excuse me’ under his breath as he went. This time, he dressed in a dark green button-down with the sleeves rolled up and a pair of dark jeans, something better than a graphic t-shirt and old denim. He even wore the new shoes Richard bought him over a month ago.

He shares the elevator with an older couple, giving them a half-smile before checking his phone, catching his reflection in the dark screen’s glare.

_It’s not that noticeable, relax._

He makes sure to silence any notifications and checks the room number again before leaving through the opening doors, counting the door plaques under his breath as he walks down the hall.

The silence is consuming, and it’s like he’s stuck once he stands outside the door of Chris’ temporary abode.

_You know nothing about this man. He’s dangerous, even you can tell. The way he carries himself, how he talks on the phone, the way he dresses…_

Tom doesn’t want to face him. Chris sets him on edge, without a doubt, makes him build more reinforcements behind his carefully built walls, but there’s something that draws him to the Aussie. He’s irritating and obviously handsome and terribly interesting. Mysterious.

Moth to a damned flame.

He knocks on the door and waits, his heart thumping in his chest.

Seconds later, Chris answers the door with a welcoming smile, but one look at his boy’s face and his smile drops, his eyes zeroing in on the fading bruise barely visible under the concealer.

_Shit._

Tom lets himself in, pushing past the blond while feeling eyes on him the entire time. Once Chris shuts the door it’s like a floodgate is opened.

“Chris--”

He charges at Tom like a bull, taking three long strides before he has Tom’s face in his hands, those lines in his forehead deepened from his furrowed brows. Tom’s hands find Chris’ wrists with a gasp and he grips them hard, stabilizing himself as Chris examines his eye closely, carefully, his hands so gentle.

He can feel Chris’ breath ghosting over his face, smelling lightly of his favoured Tanqueray.

Chris’ voice is low and dangerous when he finally speaks, sending a jolt through Tom, “Who did this?”

Tom’s startled, having expected a question or two about his eye, but not _this_. This is too genuine for him. This is all gentle touches and concerned, hardened eyes. He’s so used to fake that anything real is scary and almost taboo.

“No one,” he finally whispers, a lie ready on his lips, but he tells the truth instead, “A client.” Chris is still looking at him, waiting, “But he’s been taken care of. He was a threat to my safety, so Ashlie dealt with him…” He’s shaking, he can feel it in his legs. Chris has scared him.

Intense blue eyes flick back and forth across his face, searching for the truth. Not at all satisfied but with a soft, begrudging grunt, Chris lets him go before taking a few steps back and turning away to the window. Tom exhales shakily and feels the need to sit. He half-collapses on the foot of the bed and rubs his thighs, attempting to calm himself.

_You’re overwhelmed. It’s fine. You’ll be okay._

“I apologize,” Chris suddenly mutters from across the room after a few moments of silence, and Tom looks over at him slowly, watching him near the window with a stunning view of the city at dusk. The Aussie’s mouth is pressed into a thin line and he’s looking down, his muscled arms folded across his chest tightly. He’s almost ashamed. “That was out of line.”

_It was._ “It was,” Tom admits quietly, the truth tasting strange on his tongue, because there’s an unspoken rule about clients and their relationship with their escort. Chris, even after two visits, is getting too involved. “You scared me…”

_Lie. Don’t you dare be honest, that’s not how this works._

Within seconds, Chris looks guilty, all frowns and crinkled brows, his voice so soft it almost rumbles in his chest, “I didn’t mean to, sweetheart. Really. I just can’t control my temper sometimes.”

Tom knows, because he can’t control his, either. But, _why?_ Why would he get so concerned about a whore with a black eye?

He doesn’t ask. Instead, he slides back onto the bed, and watches Chris as he begins to unbutton his shirt slowly. Honesty isn’t something he’s used to, so he does what he does best. Distract. He droops his gaze and runs his hands from his chest to his stomach, then down to his crotch, rubbing his palm against the denim.

He notices Chris swallow roughly, his eyes watching intently.

“Make it up to me, daddy…” he whispers into the gentle light of the room, blood swelling his cock as he imagines being fucked by the older man, “Please…”

As it seems, Chris can never deny his boy anything.

\--

Tom has a hard time focusing tonight. Every time he tries to pleasure Chris, he’s denied with a small shake of a blond head or a heavy hand pushing him back onto the bed. It’s frustrating, his half-hearted complaints smothered by kisses, and now, pinching fingers.

Sex is what he’s used to, he welcomes it like an old friend. Affection is an awkward acquaintance that he avoids. They’re both different to Tom, one being a physical act that he covets as much as his roles, and the other is almost like a fairy tale he heard as a kid. Reality and an idea, something he doesn’t like to think about.

But this, tickling, is something he can’t genuinely remember.

He’s laughing before he knows it, with Chris between his legs, giggling as he writhes against the bigger man. He feels panicky, but not in the familiar sense that he needs to leave. He’s actually laughing and gasping as Chris tickles him, shouting ‘no’ and laughing in delight despite the small torture, feeling his body become hot and sensitive.

“Chris--” A high-pitched little squeal leaves him as the blond blows a wet little raspberry onto his stomach, and when he lifts his hips, his face burns in embarrassment as his hard cock rubs against the Aussie’s chest.

The blond notices it at the same time, and he peeks up at the younger man, a smirk on his lips.

“Don’t you say anything,” Tom pants breathlessly upon seeing Chris’ lips parting to speak, to poke fun at him for getting hard during a tickle fight that was obviously one-sided.

He doesn’t. Chris just laughs, softly, and begins to kiss his way down from Tom’s navel.

He’s infuriating.

And soon, Chris is stroking his cock to complete hardness and kissing it, pulling back the soft foreskin to tongue the tip and making Tom jolt with a moan. He closes his eyes and enjoys it, his body tensing every once in a while, but no matter how much he tugs Chris’ hair, the Aussie won’t let up. Before he knows it, he’s dangerously close to coming, and he tells Chris so, panting softly in a gentle voice, but he just sucks harder and seconds later Tom comes with a mewl, tugging roughly on his client’s hair.

The blond nips at his thighs and Tom pouts and squirms, “Don’t…”

“Why not?” Chris mumbles against his skin, sucking on the sensitive spots near Tom’s groin.

His mind is fogged with pleasure, but he does his best to answer, “Because…”

He can’t. He’s dizzy when Chris manhandles him onto his stomach, placing one of the pillows under his slim hips before spreading his small, newly-marked thighs. Tom shudders as Chris spreads him, exposing his entrance to the air, and licks him after a moment of admiring. He blushes at the muffled praise he hears, quietly listening to the older man’s hums and groans as his eyes close.

His second orgasm comes sooner than expected, from a mix of Chris’ tongue and fingers, and he throws the soiled pillow off the edge of the bed with a breathless sigh once he’s back to earth. He rolls onto his back and watches Chris settle next to him, looking particularly breathless and smug.

“Have I made it up to you?” He asks, and Tom wants to spite him, desperately, but instead he nods with a dazed look on his face.

Two orgasms under half an hour. Chris surely has ruined him.

And the Aussie laughs, joyfully, with a wide grin and squinted eyes. He looks ridiculous and Tom tells him so.

“Not as ridiculous as you, baby.”

Yeah, he probably looks as ruined as he feels.

“Shower?” Chris offers, but Tom shakes his head. Chris doesn’t push it, for now. “How about food, then?”

At the very mention, Tom’s stomach growls, and it’s so perfectly timed that Tom actually laughs.

Still, despite the lightness of his chuckle, Chris smiles with a bit of awe in his eyes.

“Vegetarian pizza,” he murmurs in distraction, and he watches Chris leave the bed and make his way over to the phone sitting on the desk across the room.

He ignores the rush of affection he feels for the man across the room in a mussed suit and carefully-undone hair.

\--

He’s eaten with clients before. Richard takes him for lunch all the time when they go shopping, and he likes sharing a plate of nachos with Daphne. Food isn’t necessarily a comfort for Tom, but he loves good food just as much as good sex.

So, when he’s given a hot pizza before sex, Tom is a little out of his element. The moans he saves for his client are given to the first few bites of gooey pizza, licking his lips when he should be licking them before taking a cock into his mouth like a good boy. He curls his toes in happiness while he eats, pulling the sheet up his naked lap again when Chris tries to tug it back down. Asshole.

The contentment he feels just after the first hour of the evening is striking, but the fact that he hasn’t tried to completely cover up is alarming. He doesn’t panic, feeling an odd sense of calm while in Chris’ presence. It must be his laid-back attitude, Tom reasoned, watching the blond who was propped up on his side and enjoying the pizza.

_Don’t get comfortable._

Go away.

“Can I ask you something?”

Tom looks up from his pizza, twirling a bit of mozzarella around his finger as it strings from the tip of his slice. That’s a loaded question in itself, what could Chris want to know? How old he is? Where he lives? How much for the night? Why he ran away last time? What his past is like?

Despite all of the dangers, Tom sucks the grease and mozzarella from his finger and smacks his lips gently, muttering as he looks down, “Sure, but only if I can ask one in return.”

“Deal,” Chris peels a big chunk of onion from his own slice and throws it onto the cardboard box, and the silence that consumes the next few seconds has the hairs on Tom’s neck standing on end.

Finally, “What is with the shower thing?”

Tom half-expected that question, if he were to be honest with himself.

He takes a bite to stall, chewing thoughtfully as he leans onto one arm and looks at the older man. He’d bought the pizza with cash, bills upon bills tucked snugly inside his leather wallet from what Tom had seen. He was half-tempted to steal it, but it was just a silly thought and it had passed as soon as the box of pizza was in sight. He couldn’t fuck Chris over like that, the guilt would eat him alive.

“I like to shower alone,” he mutters, taking another hurried bite, even grabbing the green pepper that fell onto the bed and stuffing it into his mouth. His bruise throbbed. “Sharing a shower is…weird.” The lie is so obvious, even to his own ears while it’s said over half-chewed pizza. He nearly cringes.

Chris’ eyebrows lift, but he looks far from impressed or surprised, “You are a terrible liar, sweetheart,” he hums.

“I’m usually much better at it,” Tom admits without much thought, glaring out the window as Chris laughs.

“I believe you. But, that does not explain why you ran out of the hotel room last time.”

_He has a lovely voice, no matter how silly his accent is._

Tom huffs and begins to eat the crust with a loud crunch, already looking for his third piece, “You pay me to lie, Chris.”

“No, I pay you to call me ‘daddy’ and let me fuck you.”

_He’s so brutally honest. And right._

“I like it when you fuck me…”

“I know—that’s not the point,” Chris laughs again and Tom smirks as he pops the last bit of pizza into his mouth, glad to have thrown him off a little.

Tom counts the seconds of the silence this time.

“Do you lie to your other clients, too?”

_37._

Tom sniffs, “It’s my turn to ask a question.”

Chris peels the mushroom from his pizza slice, nodding and mumbling, “ _Si, si._ ”

Tom looks at the little pieces with a frown, “Not my actual question, but why the hell aren’t you eating your mushrooms?”

Chris glances down at them and makes a face, so boyish that Tom has the sudden urge to kiss him, “They’re gross.”

_He’s a man-child._

“You’re dangerously close to having your pizza privilege taken away,” Tom warns as he reaches to pick them up between his fingers and place them on his own slice.

“You’re going to order and pay next time, then?” Chris smirks.

And Tom can’t really deny the facts, so instead he lifts a brow and asks, “ _Next time?_ ”

Chris has the nerve to look _shy_ , ridiculously endearing as he smiles and looks down at his food, his hair hanging in gentle little gelled wisps on his face. It frustrates Tom beyond belief that a man almost twice his age can look _cute_.

While he’s watching the blond with an intense gaze, he asks in a soft voice, “What do you do?”

Chris’ smile drops and he glances up at the Brit, and Tom doesn’t look away. He wants to know. Needs to, at his point, if Chris plans on seeing him again.

“I run a drug ring,” Chris mutters, like it’s a church confession, “Down in Columbia.”

_He way he says ‘down’ is lovely._

A drug ring. It explains his fancy clothes and money. Columbia explains the Spanish. An Australian drug lord.

“Why?” Tom asks, softly, again.

Chris looks him in the eye, and Tom forgets all about the cooling pizza between them, feeling a faint and sudden throb of arousal in his groin. Chris - powerful, strong, and dangerous. Tall, muscular, rich, with the bluest eyes and a Spanish tongue. Images upon images roll through Tom’s brain and he hates himself for being so superficial. He can’t help it. It’s what drew him to Frederick, the money and new opportunities that came along with it. It’s what kept him here, stuck in a numb world of sex and money.

“Because it’s what I’m good at,” Chris admits in a quiet voice, recognizing the lust in Tom’s eyes, “I do not know anything else.”

Tom was almost poor growing up, robbed of love and meaning. Money fills the void, but only for so long. The craving never goes away, like a cigarette itch. He wants to be spoiled again and again, until he’s rotten.

Chris _is_ dangerous, but not only because of his job.

“Done with the pizza, baby?”

“Yes,” he whispers, already breathless.

\--

He rides Chris, bounces up and down in his lap while throwing his head back and moaning shakily under his breath. Chris’ hands are everywhere on him, touching his hard stomach and pinching his pert little nipples until Tom is whining and grinding his hips down in desperation, feeling those rough hands around his waist.

He comes without much else, just the rubs of his prostate again and again before he’s striping Chris’ stomach with white. He shudders as he comes, clenching tightly around the latex inside him and hearing Chris’ groans. The twitching signals the end, and Tom sighs, reaching up to wipe the sweat from his forehead and push back his curls.

“Do you do trips?” Chris asks once he’s caught his breath, rubbing up and down Tom’s thighs as the Brit attempts to catch his own.

Tom holds up his index finger for ‘one second’ and Chris laughs at him, playfully pinching the skin of his boy’s hipbones.

“Pay for my ticket on top of regular prices, yes,” he finally breathes, “I’ll go anywhere you want,” he pauses and adds, “Within reason.”

Chris laughs again, but grunts as Tom pulls himself off and flops down next to him, “Vegas sound like a good enough reason?”

“What for?” Tom whispers, laying one hand on his stomach and throwing his other arm over his eyes, parting his lips to breathe.

“Business,” Chris gets up from the bed and goes to the bathroom to wash Tom’s mess off.

A _business_ trip to Las Vegas with Chris. It sounds like a bad idea. Alcohol, gambling, a drug lord by his side.

Oh, boy.

“I can’t schedule trips by myself,” he mutters after a moment, wondering if Chris can hear him, “You need to talk to Ashlie first.”

Chris settles onto the bed again, and Tom lifts his arm in surprise. He hadn’t heard him return.

“I can talk to Ashlie,” Chris hums, settling onto his side to admire the boy next to him, “And if he refuses, I’ll offer to pay extra.”

Tom doubts he’s worth it, but he hums back, looking at the man next to him, “How long will we go?”

“Five days, give or take. It depends.”

“On?”

Chris slides his arm around Tom and the Brit has to stop himself from rolling away, instead allowing Chris to cuddle him, “You’re nosy, aren’t you, sweetheart?” He mumbles, ducking behind Tom’s ear to inhale his scent, nosing at the soft, damp curls there.

“I have to be,” Tom mutters, hating how their skin sticks together, but the heat of Chris behind him is nice, “It keeps me entertained.”

“You’re hard to please,” Chris teases with a light tone, and Tom doesn’t dare deny it.


	5. Strunk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “When the people I used to know found out what I had been doing, how I'd been living, they asked me why - but there's no use in talking to people who have a home.  
> They have no idea what it's like to seek safety in other people - for home to be wherever you lay your head.”  
> Ride ~ Lana Del Rey

When he wakes up, there’s a film of grogginess over his eyes that he tries to clear with desperate, hard blinks.

The sun is what he notices first, bright through the curtains and spilled all over the carpet. Then, a faint snoring just behind him. An undeniable warmth near him, drawing him in, but Tom refuses to look back.

He lifts a hand from under the blanket and rubs his eyes, clearing the fuzziness and taking another look around.

_You spent the night._

He had, hadn’t he? It’s nothing new, he’s done it a dozen times in the past, but this is the first time with Chris.

The last thing he remembers is dozing, feeling so warm with Chris behind him, little kisses peppered against the nape of his neck after the lights were off. The warmth was something multiple blankets couldn’t offer, and knew he should have pushed Chris away or said he needed space to sleep, but he didn’t. He had indulged himself with the warmth of Chris’ naked body, feeling the hard muscle against his back and the hairs of Chris’ legs ticking the back of his smooth, shaven calves. He’d woken up in the middle of the night sticky with sweat.

He had loved it.

He’d laid there in the dark, hot and tired, and focused on the breaths ghosting over his neck and shoulders. Chris’ arm, heavy over his waist, singed him like a low flame against his skin, as if branding him like an animal.

Tom had trailed his fingertips lightly over the blond hair furring his client’s forearm, his tired eyes downcast as he slipped his fingers between the ringed ones resting against his chest.

Chris’ hand gently squeezed back, and Tom was too scared to ask if he was awake.

He left the secret touches behind when the night met dawn, a rare vulnerability to feel safe and comforted with a stranger, and slipped back into sleep.

Now, he doesn’t want to remember.

Quietly, and carefully, he lifts the blankets and slips from the bed onto his tiptoes. Chris’ soft snoring fills the air as Tom makes his way over to the bathroom, taking his time, stretching this body part and that. He’s sore, as expected, and grossly sticky. His hair stinks of sex and his dry tongue craves cigarettes for breakfast.

Even as he shuts the bathroom door, he doesn’t glance at the man across the room. He can’t.

He eyes the shower for a moment, chewing on his lower lip and ripping a piece of skin from it, spitting it into the sink as he faces the mirrored counter.

Strangely, he doesn’t feel the extreme urge to clean himself. He’s sticky, yes, and reeking of last night, but the urge to scrub his skin raw isn’t there.

He just needs that damn cigarette.

After splashing his face and emptying his bladder, he leaves the bathroom, flicking the light off just as he finally catches the sight of Chris on the bed.

He’s on his back, an arm over his hard-muscled stomach, and the other hidden under the pillow. His hair, always so perfectly gelled, is everywhere and his jaw is stubbled thicker. The sheets cover only one leg, leaving everything exposed.

Tom hates the cliché, but he looks peaceful.

The coolness of the room seeps into Tom’s bones, and he heads back to the bed, to slip under the covers to steal the warmth that all but radiates from the man sleeping on it.

But, he stops, just before climbing on.

_No._

Tom stares at him, soaking in his client’s features. The strong nose, the fanned and thick eyelashes, those soft lines in his skin around his mouth, eyes, and forehead. They’re smoothed out, his lips gently parted for deep, even breathing. Frederick had snored like a motherfucker.

_Leave._

He straightens and gathers his clothes, putting them on slowly one at a time, quietly hoping that Chris would wake up and stop him.

He doesn’t.

Tom shoves his phone into his back pocket and looks over at the sleeping man one last time, his fingers twitching with nerves, until he gives in and rounds the bed to press a light kiss to the sandpaper-rough cheek.

Chris ‘mmm’s in his sleep and Tom feels his face flush as he straightens and rushes out of the room, being careful with how the door shuts.

A satisfying ‘click’ sounds from the automatic lock and he sighs, relieved.

\--

“Tommy, I need to talk to you asap.”

Tom frowns, “Right now?” He mumbles, looking down at his bedtime attire he’s been dressed in all day.

“Well, isn’t that what ‘asap’ means?”

He rolls his eyes, pursing his lips, “I’ll be right over.”

He hangs up with a sign and places his phone aside, looking down at his lap where the white box of Chinese takeout. He picks up the chopsticks and stuffs noodles into his mouth, chewing with a pout as he wonders why Ashlie wants to see him.

Vegas, probably.

Las Vegas with Chris. He can’t believe he agreed to it, it’s probably the worst idea that he could have agreed to. He knows nothing about Chris, he’s practically a stranger who doesn’t like mushrooms on his pizza and favours gin and tonic like a real grandpa. He lives in Columbia, maybe Australia, too. He’s tall and handsome, most likely over thirty, but that’s all he really knows—

Ashlie’s known him for a while if he considers them friends. Surely, he knows what Chris does and how long he’s done it. Maybe what he’s done before, too.

He feels anticipation coil in his gut, his chewing slowing to a stop. He swallows roughly and jumps up from his seat, stuffing another mouthful of Chow Mein into his mouth before shoving it into the fridge and rushing to get ready.

\--

The air is cooler tonight, making Tom shrug on a black cardigan, and he presses the buzzer for Ashlie’s downtown penthouse apartment. He sniffs and flicks his cigarette, watching the ash float away before coughing.

The small speaker rattles with static before Tom hears his boss, “Tom?”

“Yeah,” he replies, taking one last drag as the door buzzes open and he flicks the butt into the potted plant near the entrance.

Ashlie welcomes him with a smile, his teeth too white and Tom can’t decide which scent is overpowering the other: the cologne or the whiskey on his breath.

He’s offered a drink, but Tom refuses, taking a seat at the kitchen table as he always does.

“So, Vegas?” Ashlie hums, cutting to the chase while pouring himself another glass of Jack. Tom watches him with a calculating gaze. They do this every time Tom’s asked to go somewhere with a client, he knows which questions to expect.

“Yeah,” he replies, “Chris asked me last night.”

“And?” Ashlie turns around, the glass at his lips, “Do you want to go?”

Tom flicks his eyes away, crossing his arms over his chest slowly, putting on the act of an unsure little boy, “I don’t know,” he mutters, watching the tabletop, “I mean, the money will be great, but I just…” He trails off, pressing his lips together.

“But…?” Ashlie raises a brow, leaning against the counter.

Tom glances at him, “I barely know anything about him,” he gives a breath of a laugh, “I knew Richard _months_ before he took me anywhere, and that was just to San Diego.”

“So what?” Ashlie laughs, “Listen, I know Chris from way back, you’ve got nothing to worry about. He’s a respectable, decent, honest man. Despite his work.”

Tom lifts the inside of his right eyebrow, looking skeptical.

Ashlie continues, as expected, “Well, you know what he does,” he said with a wave of his hand, “I mean, sure, he’s the biggest drug lord with the biggest amount of blow probably to date, but you’ve got nothing to worry about! He’s got guys with him all the time.”

_Were there guys at the hotel, too?_

Tom looks a little relieved, his shoulders dropping just enough so that Ashlie leans in, staring straight at him. “Tom, I’ve known you for almost two years. You’re great at what you do. I trust you. So, trust me in return? Chris is offering a lot of money for you to tag along on this trip.”

Ashlie loves to talk, Tom knows that, but he knows Ashlie loves money more. He could talk for a dime a minute if it meant profit.

“How much, exactly?” He asks after a moment, honestly curious.

“Well…” Ashlie began to count to himself, eyes on the ceiling as he calculated, before announcing, “Fifty grand. Ish.”

Tom can’t help the way his eyes widen in genuine surprise. It’s the most he would ever make as an escort, maybe in his entire life. Even after Ashlie took his share.

“See!” Ashlie laughs, “The look on your face, Tommy, says it all. Now,” he slaps the tabletop in his excitement and Tom jumps unwillingly, recalling his father’s hands doing the same thing before yelling at him.

Ashlie doesn’t notice. “Chris said five days, so we’ll give him five days. If he wants more, we’ll double the price, try to get as much out of him as we can.”

_What an amazing friendship you have, Chris._

“Ten grand a day, _damn_! Have I ever told you that I love you, Tom? No? Well, I do. Officially.”

Tom manages a wry smile that Ashlie takes as real. He’s being sold right now, so excuse his lack of excitement. Ashlie loves the money, not him.

He decides to stay a little longer, accepts one drink when Ashlie declares it a celebration, but otherwise sits back and lets his boss get a little tipsy, forcing a laugh or two and responding when he should. He thinks about the unfinished Chow Mein at his apartment.

When Tom decides the other’s tongue is loose enough, he wait a beat before changing the subject, “You said you knew Chris from way back…”

Ashlie’s face lights up with a grin and he nods, “Yeah, almost ten years, in fact.”

_Huh._

“Yeah, I was staying in Sydney for a summer, and met him at a bar through friends. Real nasty crowd, though. Into drugs and stuff – Chris didn’t do any of that, says he hates it. Ironic, hey?” Ashlie laughs and scratches at his chin, his eyes pinched in thought, “But I knew he was conning people then.”

_Conning?_

“Like a con-artist?” Tom asks, furrowing his brows a little while taking a sip of his whiskey.

Ashlie nods, his eyes a little glassy, “Yup. Told me himself, after about a month of knowing him. He even got me to do a little of it,” he chuckled, shaking his head as if in disbelief of himself. “He was _really_ good at it, too.”

Chris was a con-artist before he became a drug lord. Interesting. Maybe that’s why he can see through Tom’s lies.

“He could scam almost a thousand off one person, just through talking and making empty promises.”

Tom’s heard enough about his client’s past vices, and instead asks, “Has the money changed him?”

Ashlie makes a face and shakes his head, “Not much. He’s the same Chris that I know. We’re not the best of friends, y’know, but we go back. Kept in touch over the years. I was surprised when he called me, asking for - and I quote - ‘someone with a pretty face who can call me ‘daddy’ for a night’.” Ashlie’s snickers sound like snake hisses, and Tom flicks his eyes down to the table, the corners of his mouth lifted a little.

Sounds like Chris.

“Is he gay?”

Ashlie shook his head again, slower this time, “No, I think he swings both ways.”

Tom checks his phone and sighs, “Okay, thank you for the drink, Ashlie, but I have to go. Meeting Daphne early in the morning for breakfast before work.”

His boss stands with him, brushing his fringe out of his eyes, “I’ll walk you.”

They wait for the elevator, one swaying gently and the other impatient.

“By the way,” Ashlie mutters, and Tom glances over at him, “I think you’ll have a new client tomorrow.”

Tom keeps his face in check, “Who?”

“Kirk-something. Met with him today and said he was looking for some company, I asked his type, you fit it. That okay?”

It never really is, but Tom nods anyway, because it’s his job, “Yeah. Always is.”

The elevator dings, and Tom steps in, pressing the button for the lobby.

“Oh, and your biannual check-up is soon--!” Ashlie mentions just before the doors close, and Tom huffs as it begins their journey back down to earth. Great.

**

Daphne is beautiful in her maroon pencil skirt and white button-up blouse, sitting across from Tom at their patio table. She’s glowing in the morning sun, tearing her croissant with poise, and her smile is coy. She’s a lady through and through, undeniable in the sense that Tom hangs on every word she says while telling a story.

He had missed the easiness that came with Daphne. The easy conversation, the simple ways to please her in bed that didn’t take much acting.

“You look different,” she comments softly, scooping a little bit of yogurt parfait with her dessert spoon.

Tom raises a brow, chewing on a cube of watermelon, “Different?”

She nods, slow and thoughtful, even looking him over, “I don’t know what it is, but there’s something.” She pauses and smirks, “If you were a woman, I’d say you have a pregnancy glow.”

He _has_ to laugh at that, “Daphne, that’s absurd!” He chuckles, plucking a grape from the fruit platter between them, popping it into his mouth with a smirk. Apparently he’s _glowing_.

And he doesn’t like that Chris comes to mind first.

“Well, it’s something,” she waves it off, and Tom’s glad to have the subject dropped.

She insists on paying the cheque, as usual, and Tom thanks her by having a quickie in the backseat of her car.

He closes his eyes as she moves in his lap, up and down his sheathed cock, the gripping warmth familiar and he moans under his breath, tipping his head back against the seat. The air is stuffy and warm, suffocating, but he grips her thighs and squeezes the softness of them, recalling the muscled ones of his last client.

When he sees Chris behind his eyelids, he kisses her, hoping to drive the Aussie away.

It works.

\--

She drops him off a few blocks from his apartment, his curls messier and his clothes are no better.

His phone goes off in his pocket, and he opens the message from Ashlie while he walks. It’s just a reminder of the new client for that evening.

_Right, client two of the day._

He decides to shower before anything else, being extra careful with how he cleans himself and where he shaves. It’s always best to make a good first impression.

Tom spends the rest of the day in front of his laptop on the balcony, with a cigarette in one hand and a cup of tea in the other. He can’t help but to wonder about the new client, Kirk. Moderately well-off, apparently, so it’s nothing substantial. Just the usual cost of a few hours with Tom. Will Kirk be for one night, or will he stay? As much as he hates it, he hopes that he’ll stay. A client is like a steady job for Tom, offering financial security and a way to keep busy.

His life isn’t anything more than a laptop and the various people he whores himself out to. It’s not much, but it’s his. He has no friends. No family. Nothing to love him or to love, except himself.

And, oh, he tries. He tries so hard to love himself. He takes care of his body as best as he can, getting biannual physicals to screen for diseases. His “doctor” will probably tell him to stop smoking, again. It’s not like he smokes a pack a day. And besides, his doctor is underground, what good are they if they don’t serve the public? The normal public, at least.

Tom always gets antsy and moody after a visit every six months, expecting the worst but always coming out with a clean bill of health, although he gets an earful of warnings about lung cancer. He has to thank Ashlie for going to such extreme lengths with his clients, but it’s always better to be safe than sorry.

_Speaking of safe, get some condoms before you go over._

Tom’s thankful for his voice of reason.

\--

The hotel Kirk is staying in isn’t as nice as the one he met Chris in, but it’s alright. He feels the usual nerves in his stomach, resting there idly, and he takes calming breaths in the elevator.

The room is bland. Neutral shades on the bed, walls, and curtains. The lights are off, except for one. Kirk is a middle-aged business man, with a soft belly but strong arms. His hair is cut professionally, with bits of white sprinkled into the brunette shade. His eyes are like caramel.

Tom is taller just by an inch, and he gives his client a shy little smile as he steps inside.

He feels his phone buzz in his pocket just as Kirk kisses him, squeezing Tom in his strong arms, and he focuses on the warmth seeping through the other’s clothing. A suit, but he doesn’t fill it as nicely as Chris does. He smells like cheap hotel soap, not cinnamon cologne. He’s soft where he should be hard, although he’s definitely hard where it matters. Tom can’t grip his hair, can’t mess it about between his fingers. He’s…

He’s _wrong_.

But Tom closes his eyes, responds to the kiss and turns on his auto-pilot.

He’s stripped, touched, forced onto his knees. A weight on his tongue, bitter, and then he’s laid out on the bed, legs spread, and there’s no tongue teasing him at all. It’s all selfishness and disappointment with just two fingers before there’s a blunt pressure.

Then, Chris is there.

He’s murmuring in Tom’s ear, calling him those sickly sweet pet names in his deep voice, kissing his skin and making sure no inch goes untouched. He kisses him with a passion that Kirk can’t muster.

Kirk thrusts twice more before he comes into the condom, choking on a moan that brings Tom back to consciousness.

He’s sticky and gross and feels sick – _oh_ , he’s going to be sick.

He slips from the bed, quiet, while Kirk deals with his condom. Tom limps to the bathroom and shuts the door, holding himself over the sink and closing his eyes, waiting for the heaving to start. It doesn’t happen. Instead, he splashes water on his face and has to finish himself off, a release that leaves him ultimately unsatisfied. He still feels sick.

The roughness of a towel against his skin helps, and he gives himself a quasi-sponge bath. His face crumbles in the mirror’s reflection a few times, his throat forming a lump, but he doesn’t cry. He cleans himself and leaves the bathroom, seeing Kirk laying on the bed, watching TV.

He doesn’t even acknowledge him, even when Tom’s picking his clothes up from the floor. His clients always pay beforehand, to Ashlie, who takes his share and puts the rest away for his escorts.

When he’s dressed, he leaves, his stomach still turning uneasily.

He hates everything, including himself.

\--

He doesn’t check his phone until he’s home, where he goes straight to the bathroom and strips, putting himself under the burning water of the shower.

_It’s okay. You’ll be okay. You were used, but that’s okay._

Is it?

He feels his eyes begin to burn, but still, he doesn’t cry. Instead, he scrubs his skin clean, breathing in the cleansing steam, and afterwards, sinks to the floor. He sits under the spray, feeling empty and so terribly stupid, but can’t pinpoint why.

He’s never felt sick after a client. The first few times, yes, he felt this self-loathing, but he’s used to this by now. He’s had worse. He’s been beaten during sex, bruised black and blue. Yet the selfishness of Kirk got to him, the total lack of respect to even _acknowledge_ Tom afterwards.

Maybe it’s the fact that he’d imagined Chris.

_You were lying to yourself._

He had been with someone, yet thinking of another. He’d been lying to himself.

Chris has ruined him.

Tom curls into himself and squeezes his eyes shut.

\--

He pats his curls dry, having left the shower once the water began to run cool. His chest feels tight, like he can’t breathe, so he skips his cigarette and heads straight to bed. He checks his phone, and then his heart is in his throat.

_‘Hello, sweetheart. Flight to Vegas is booked for the day after tomorrow. C.’_

Tom stares down at his cellphone with a blank stare, sitting on his bed fully clothed from head to toe, half buried under his multiple blankets.

Chris probably got his number from Ashlie.

Before he knows it, he’s been thinking of a response for almost twenty minutes.

Finally, he types, ‘What are we going to do? Asking for packing reasons.’

He opens his bedroom window to welcome the cool air in before burying himself under his blankets again, giving a long sigh just as his phone buzzes beside his pillow, feeling his heart begin to pick up as the messages come in within five minutes of each other.

_‘A lot of things. Do you have a suit?’_

‘I do, but it looks terrible on me.’

_‘Liar. You’d look good in everything, especially nothing.’_

‘Dirty old man. Why does a suit matter?’

_‘It matters for expensive restaurants. Dress code, baby.’_

Oh, Chris is going to spoil him.

Tom feels his chest begin to loosen from the tightness it’s been ever since leaving Kirk’s hotel room. ‘Fine, I’ll bring it along.’

_‘Good boy. Going to sleep now?’_

It’s just past one a.m. Perhaps he should.

‘Is this a booty call?’

Chris’ response is slower this time, _‘I lost my composure for a second, you’re funny.’_

Another comes in a few seconds later, _‘To clarify, no, this is not a booty call. I think I’m above that.’_

Tom preens a little at the knowledge of having made Chris laugh, and he feels himself smirking as he replies, ‘Sure, DADDY.’

_‘It’s a kink, what can I say?’_

Curiosity for this man blooms inside Tom again, ‘How long as it been a kink?’

_‘A while.’_

‘Why?’

_‘I’d rather explain in person.’_

Tom purses his lips in slight disappointment, but lets it go.

‘I’ll wait the two days. Goodnight, Chris.’

_‘Goodnight, sweetheart.’_

He shuts his phone and the sickness in his stomach is gone, but a longing-like ache appears in his chest. Despite it, he sleeps well.

**

He doesn’t see anyone the next day, deciding that it would be better to make sure his apartment was ready for him to be away for five days, and to pack. Simple shirts and jeans, the suit, and various other stylish items are folded neatly into the only suitcase he owns. He packs lube and condoms into his toiletry bag, and has it ready to go for tomorrow.

He solidifies things with Ashlie over the phone in the evening, enjoying a chicken teriyaki dish from the takeaway place down the street in the comfort of his living room.

“I do worry about you, y’know,” Ashlie huffs over the phone after he’s done ranting about safety, and Tom raises an eyebrow.

“Really?” He asks, picking up a piece of marinated chicken with his chopsticks.

“Of course. My escorts are like family. You guys are all I have.”

It doesn’t seem like that to Tom. Ashlie doesn’t know what it’s like to have no one but yourself, to rely on other people for any kind of comfort. Ashlie wouldn’t be able to sleep with a stranger.

He doesn’t voice his bitter thoughts, just mumbles, “Thanks, Ashlie. Goodnight.” And hangs up.

He sleeps with knots in his stomach and dreams of cinnamon cologne.


	6. Off To The Races

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [listen, please.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3iQU94vw9cE)

His alarm goes off at four in the morning, and Tom grumbles to himself as he slides across the crinkling bedsheets to reach his ringing phone. It’s quiet with a tap from his finger, and he turns onto his back, glaring sleepily up at the ceiling.

_Why_ did Chris pick the early flight?

After a huff and some mental preparation, he throws the blankets off and trudges towards the bathroom with the tips of his toes against the icy floor.

By five, he has his suitcase in the trunk of a cab and is making his way to LAX.

He loves mornings. It’s always peaceful to watch the city come back to life, even though it never really goes to sleep. The bleary-eyed people taking those first critical sips of coffee and the night owls just returning home from a wild night.

He’s at the airport by 5:30, somehow, and he pays the cabbie before heading in with his things. He’ll never be over the size of this place, despite the past visits.

If he remembered correctly, Chris would meet him at the closest Starbucks, before security and near the entrance. Tom wheeled his luggage further inside the airport until he saw the familiar green and white sign, and looked around for a tall man in a suit.

Instead, he saw Chris in dark jeans and a fitted white t-shirt, sipping from a large white cup.

His client smiled as their eyes met, and Tom went over, feeling more and more overwhelmed as the distance closed.

He notices the tan of Chris’ muscled arms, contrasting beautifully against the soft fabric of his shirt. He’s so incredibly casual, despite the Rolex still on his wrist. It steals Tom’s breath differently from the suits.

“Good morning,” Chris greets him in a low, soft voice, a smile on his lips and his blue eyes are warmer than a summer sky. He looks as tired as Tom feels, little puffs of fatigue under his eyes, but he’s still incredibly handsome.

And then he feels the urge to touch him, to reach out and bury himself in Chris, to wrap his arms around him and seek the same fleeting safety he’d experienced in the middle of the night.

But, he doesn’t. “Hi,” he mutters in return, feeling his face flush a little.

“Ready?” Chris asks, his voice as soft as his eyes, already stepping towards the long queue to security.

Swallowing any doubt or fear or longing, Tom murmurs, “Yeah.”

\--

They go through security and Tom watches Chris as he grabs a plastic bin to place his things in, glancing at him often throughout the process, just to see his expression. He’s calm, looking just as tired as everyone around them with a sleepy gaze and a small frown. Tom wonders who the better actor is between them, a lying whore with one of his clients or a drug lord surrounded by security in an international airport. Chris just smiles politely and wishes everyone he talks to a good morning.

Tom feels a surge of odd admiration for him, and adverts his gaze once his bin comes rolling out of the x-ray. He glances back at the queue and catches sight of a tall, tanned, and heavily muscled man staring at them. His black hair is short and slightly spiked, wearing a dark jeans and t-shirt combo like Chris. Tom stares back into those dark eyes, his brows furrowing a little when the man doesn’t look away until he grabs a bin.

Chris pulls at his elbow, and Tom swallows the paranoia creeping up his spine.

Once they’re through, Chris leads the way towards the gates, and Tom glances back again to see the man still staring, almost _watching_.

An annoying bit of anxiousness makes itself at home in the pit of Tom’s stomach.

He tries to not think about it, instead watches the muscles of Chris’ back shift under his shirt, or the way his shirt gently stretches over the flexed arm holding his coffee…

Tom glances into the reflection of the glass to his right, and sees the man following them from a distance. He’s carrying only a backpack with him, his brow heavy from the furrowed look, and Tom presses his lips together as he takes a few more steps to fall in next to Chris.

They’re being followed.

As the gates become further and further from one another, Tom steadily grows more and more confused as they pass by each and every single one of them. He’s about to ask which gate they’re supposed to wait at when Chris leads them through a heavy door and they step right outside into the morning light.

The air is dewy and cool, nipping at Tom’s skin gently, and he bunches his shoulders up to his ears as Chris glances back at him. He smiles, and Tom pouts in return, watching Chris glance further back behind Tom before he leads them towards a sleek white jet just a mere two hundred yards away.

_Of course. A drug lord doesn’t ride coach._

Tom feels just a little stupid, but blames it on his sleepiness.

And then the heavy door shuts behind them, and this time Tom whips his head to look back.

That damn man, again.

“Chris…”

Chris looks back at him, then at the man, his eyes squinted from the rising sun. He says nothing as the man comes closer, closer, until he’s a few feet away and Tom rips a piece of dried skin from his lip from between his teeth.

The two men nod at each other, and Chris asks him a question in Spanish.

“ _No,_ ” the man shakes his head, his dark eyes flicking over to Tom for a second, _“¿Quién es este?”_

“Thomas,” Chris supplies, and Tom glances between them, confused.

“Who’s he?” He asks Chris, flicking his eyes back to the other man, his eyes catching on the cut on his chin.

“ _Lugartenientes,”_ Chris hums, a small smile on his mouth as he looks down at Tom, his eyes as warm as honey with his affection, “A ‘lieutenant’. He works for me. He made sure no one followed us out here.”

Tom murmurs a little ‘oh’ under his breath, flicking his gaze back to the man.

He isn’t as tall as Chris, but is just a little taller than Tom. His muscles are immensely impressive, and although his eyes are hard, Tom feels comforted by his presence. His intent sat well in Tom’s gut.

Tom sticks his hand out to him, in a spur of the moment idea, “Tom. Call me Tom, please. Chris refuses to.”

To his surprise, his hand is taken and squeezed, the man’s accent not as thick as Tom had expected, “Clover. Pleasure to meet you, Tom.”

_Clover. His name is Clover._

His smile is small, but shocking. He’s such a scary looking man. Tough.

“Likewise,” Tom breathes, his hand falling back to his side, watching Clover pass around them to get to the jet, the other two turning to watch him.

“… _Clover?”_ Tom whispers in disbelief after a moment, glancing up at Chris.

His client smirks as he watches the pilot open up the jet, taking a sip of his coffee and murmuring around the rim of his cup, “He’s lucky...”

Tom scoffs a laugh, looking down the runway, nearly shaking his head in disbelief.

Chris nudges him gently then, skin meeting skin, nodding towards the jet while shifting his weight between his feet, “What do you think, sweetheart?”

Tom resists the urge to lean against him, instead eyes the machine with hooded lids, “I don’t know much about jets, but I guess it’s nice.”

Chris looks at him, and Tom continues to stare at the jet, finally glancing over when Chris chuckles, “You really are hard to please.”

Again, Tom doesn’t deny it.

\--

It’s just like in the movies. Plush seats, hardwood floors, champagne before noon, a nice book in his hand…

Tom’s in heaven with a drug lord by his side.

Well, across from him. 

“More champagne?” Chris asks, catching sight of the empty flute in Tom’s delicate hand, resting in the lap of his folded legs.

“Hm?” Tom hums, lifting his head but not taking his eyes off the printed words.

Chris chuckles and leans in closer, enough for Tom to catch that familiar cologne, and his voice is deep and rumbling as he murmurs, “Champagne, Thomas.”

Tom hands him his glass, “Yes.”

It’s refilled halfway, and Tom takes another sip as Chris places the bottle back into the bucket of ice next to him.

They fall into easy silence once more, Tom taking sips of his bubbly beverage every now and then as he learns what’s been driving people to go crazy in a small town. He ignores the Spanish across from him, trying to focus on the book as Chris speaks to Clover, who’s seated across the jet. It’s just the three of them on board, aside from the pilot. It intimidates Tom a little, to be stuck in the air with them. Nowhere to hide or run if he needed or wanted to.

Fifteen minutes into the trip and everything is going smoothly. His ears have popped, he’s enjoying his champagne, and a book.

And Chris is by his side.

“Sweetheart?”

Tom places his finger on a word and looks up, blinking slowly.

“We’re landing in half an hour.”

“Already?” He asks, eyes widening as he closes his paperback of _Bloodstream_.

Chris nods, resting his chin in his hand while leaning his elbow on the armrest. He stares at Tom, as always, and Tom isn’t sure if he should go back to reading or not. He had been expecting to be on the plane for a little longer, and this was a long book. Perhaps he’ll ask—

“Are you excited?”

Tom licks his lips and nods, after a moment.

“You hesitated.”

Tom purses his lips and resists rolling his eyes, “Well, yes, I’m excited. But I’m also nervous.”

“About?” Chris’ eyebrow raises, the sunlight catching in his hair.

“A lot of things…” Tom whispers, setting his champagne aside and folding his knees up to his chest, “I’m travelling with the likes of you, why shouldn’t I be nervous?”

Chris laughs, dryly, “’The likes of me’?” He asks, his warmth gone.

“A drug lord has enemies, no?”

“I do.”

“Enemies that have weapons. Weapons that can kill.” It’s like explaining it to a six-year-old.

Chris raises a brow, his words chilling Tom a little: “So do I.”

Tom flicks his eyes out to the window, watching the clouds reflect pink and orange from the sunrise, the sky steadily turning blue.

His question comes quietly, barely a whisper as he doesn’t look at Chris, “Have you killed before?”

Chris’ jaw clenches and he looks away, an instant ‘yes’ in Tom’s mind.

He’s not surprised.

“Is that why you have Clover? So you don’t have to?”

Chris clears his throat and looks down at Tom’s shoes, “He’s here to keep you safe.”

Tom doesn’t dare let his heart skip a beat. “And you?” He whispers.

“I can take care of myself. Clover is to stay at the hotel with you when I’m not. I trust him the most out of all my men.”

Tom hands Chris his champagne when the Aussie motions for it, letting their fingers brush again. Their eyes meet and Tom licks his lips, biting back a smile when Chris’ eyes zero in on them. “Why?” He asks, glancing over at Clover, who’s reading or watching something on his phone with headphones in his ears.

“He took a bullet for me, once,” Chris mutters after a sip, “His selflessness has earned him my respect and complete trust. When you’re working for a drug lord, those are two single things that keep you alive.”

Respect and trust. Tom thinks of them as poison. He’s deception and perfection, two wonderfully fake qualities.

“If you trust him so much, why do you call him ‘Clover’? Wouldn’t you use his real name?” He asks, reaching his hand out for his flute again.

Chris hands it back, his eyes trained on how their fingers touch during the little exchange, “Puts him in danger,” he mutters, sitting back after a moment, watching Tom tilt his head back to take a sip, “I use aliases for all my men.”

“What about you?” Tom asks, suddenly curious again. What if Chris is his alias?

“No,” Chris shakes his head with a little smile, dismissing all of Tom’s doubt, and then he looks thoughtful, contemplating for a moment before Tom meets his gaze again. He whispers his full name, just loud enough for Tom to hear, “Christopher Hemsworth.”

_Hemsworth. It fits._

“No middle name?” Tom asks after a moment, a smile threatening to lift his lips.

Chris chuckles and shakes his head, affection clear in his eyes again, “No. No middle name.”

Should he?

_No._

“Thomas William Hiddleston,” Tom whispers back, the truth leaving a strange taste on his tongue.

Chris looks surprised, but doesn’t say anything, just smiles and rubs his lips with his thumb, clearly elated over the simple little bit of knowledge.

Tom feels ridiculous, giddy like a kid, fighting back a smile as he looks down at his lap so he doesn’t have to see Chris’ face.

“How old are you, Thomas?”

“Guess.” He can’t speak the truth again so soon. Let Chris do the work.

And, oh, does Chris work for it. He sits back in his seat and _stares_. He looks thoughtful again, his brows furrowed a little in the middle, and Tom is about to laugh when he says, “Twenty.”

Tom nods, and Chris begins to laugh, covering his eyes and shaking his head.

“What?” Tom asks, eyeing the man, “Why are you laughing?”

“I’m thirty-six, sweetheart.”

And Tom’s face breaks out in a smile, full of disbelief and pleasure, a chuckle threatening to escape as he stares at the man across from him. “ _Really?_ ” He asks, stopping his smile by biting on his bottom lip.

“Yes.”

A sixteen year age difference.

“I guess I _should_ be calling you ‘daddy’,” Tom mutters, and Chris bursts out laughing, his eyes crinkling so lovely in the corners and his teeth are perfect.

His heart flutters in his chest, and Tom is quick to look away.

**

Las Vegas is bright and shining in Tom’s eyes when they land, blinding him with the thoughts of glitz and glamour as Chris takes his hand to help him down from the jet. A real gentleman, who even lights Tom’s cigarette for him, cupping his hand against the flame so the wind of the desert doesn’t snuff it out. Tom watches him the entire time, hollowing his cheeks for show as he takes the first drag, and Chris stares at him hungrily. With a surge of confidence, he gives Chris a playful wink before taking his luggage and beginning to wheel it towards the airport, blowing out poisonous smoke from his lips.

He can’t forget the reason why he’s here in the first place. Keep Chris happy, in any way possible.

Chris leads them through the airport with Clover following close behind. Tom glances back at him from time to time, catching his eye before something takes the man’s attention again. He looks young, maybe a few years older than Tom.

They make it safely to a sleek black Mercedes-Benz, where Chris opens the back door for him and looks around before following in behind Tom. Clover sits up front with the driver, and the second they leave the airport, Tom is attached to the tinted window.

“First time?” Chris asks softly, and Tom shakes his head. He’s been here with Frederick before, back when their relationship had been nice. It’s just still so new to him, the skyscrapers and hordes of people all trying to get to this place and that. Frederick didn’t want to do much other than gamble, so Tom spent most of his time pool-side or in the spa.

This time, he hopes it’s different. His curiosity wants him to explore.

“Where are we staying?” He asks after a long stretch of silence, glancing back at Chris to find the Aussie on his phone, typing away at the screen.

“The Bellagio,” Chris hums, his accent making the word sound silly, “I booked the ‘Premier Fountain View’ suite, hoping to impress you.”

Tom smirks to himself, so very pleased at Chris’ honesty. Warmth curls in his lower belly and spreads throughout his body.

“Can’t wait…” He whispers against the glass as the city passes by in front of him.

It’s going to be an interesting five days.


	7. (Nothing) Sweet About Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “I've taken your potion and now I’m senseless, defenseless, a fool  
> The spell I’m under is you  
> It’s you  
> You’re just what’s come over me  
> You’re who’s gotten into me  
> You who did this thing to me  
> I used to be so bad”  
> True Believer ~ Dragonette

It’s like a sensory overload.

Bright, shiny, sunny, lush, _expensive_ …

The room is big and bright, all hardwood flooring and colour-coded decoration, every bit of wooden furnishing stained dark and polished. Dark blue and silver accents, with the biggest and fluffiest bed Tom has seen to date. He dumps his luggage near the entrance with no grace at all and goes in further, looking around with wide eyes, absently hearing Chris put away their things in the mirrored closet near the door.

He rushes past a white ottoman on his way to the ceiling-to-floor window across the room, and stares out into the glittering city with wide eyes, his lips parted in awe.

Las Vegas is laid out in front of him, open and ready, like a toy in front of a child. The possibilities are endless from up here, overwhelming Tom with thoughts of greed and desire.

“What do you think?” Chris is beside him, breaking his thoughts with his voice low and rumbling the same question from earlier, gazing down at him warmly.

Tom doesn’t say anything, just gapes down at the bustling city beneath. He often forgot that Miami wasn’t the biggest city in the world. This is a startling reminder.

“It’s…” he whispers, licking his lips, trying to find a word – _any_ word – to explain this. He can’t. He’s absolutely speechless, and Chris seems to pick up on that rather quickly when Tom looks up at him.

The Aussie looks delighted, and Tom thinks for a second that Chris’ smile outshines the sun.

His heart squeezes, and he looks away, back to the view of the fountains the blond had promised him.

Chris leaves his side, and Tom presses his hand to the glass, a thrill shooting up his spine as he glances down to the Strip below.

“Hungry, sweetheart?” Chris asks from somewhere behind him.

“Famished,” Tom murmurs, forcing himself away from the window.

\--

On the drive there, Tom recalls their second meeting. Chris had asked him twice to dine with him, and both times Tom had refused. He had been scared of Chris – still is, in fact. Chris is a mystery to him that he’ll probably never solve. He’s all secrets and carefully placed words, small smiles and kind eyes. He’s strange; something Tom’s not familiar with.

And Tom is afraid of the unknown.

They get Japanese, at this cute little restaurant tucked away at the corner of one street. Apparently it’s Chris’ favourite place and visits every time he’s in the city. Tom asks if that’s often, and the moment they step in, the hostess makes eye contact with Chris before taking them into the back without a word. Tom knew his answer then.

They’re lead past the other customers to a little private booth in the back, dimly lit and – dare he say – a little romantic. Traditional art is painted onto the walls beautifully, with small paper lanterns hanging over their heads. The table is shiny black marble, with plush red seating curved in a ‘U’ that Tom sinks into when he sits down across from Chris.

Tea is poured and sake is sipped the moment it’s placed onto their table, Tom taking his own little cup and giving it a sniff. It tastes like very dry white wine, he decides to himself, and he likes wine – and apparently so does Chris.

“You don’t seem like a wine type of person,” Tom murmurs around the little cup against his lips, taking another sip as he looks his client over.

“Not often,” Chris hums back, smiling at their waitress as she came back around with what looked like appetizers and salads and soups, placing the little dishes one by one onto the table from her tray. It was startling quick service here.

Tom can’t help the smirk growing on his face. He tries to hide it, simply amused by the fact that Chris had to only walk in here and they seemed to know what he wants. He’s obviously here more than he’s lead on.

“What?” Chris notices his smirk, poorly hidden behind his fingers.

“Nothing,” Tom shrugs, licking his lips, reaching for what looks like grilled scallops, “Tell me about what I’m going to be putting in my mouth.”

Chris names every single little dish, in English, and why he likes it. His palate is wide-spread from miso soup to squid with a tangy sauce. Tom tries everything, holding back a face at the less appealing tastes but humming at the ones that suit him. Chris eats everything without a second thought, his big hands holding the chopsticks delicately between his fingers, methodical and precise.

This man, Tom comes to realize by the time they’re halfway done their meal, loves his food. It’s oddly endearing. He’d suspected Chris as a steak and red wine type of diner.

Chris only continues to surprise him.

“So,” Tom swipes a bit of sauce from his lower lip, sucking it from his thumb quickly, “What else are we doing today?” He glances over at Chris, who’s moved closer over the past half an hour.

The way Chris’ constant little smile drops makes Tom pause in his chewing, his eyes wide on the Aussie’s handsome face to watch small emotions flicker over it.

“I’ll be busy this evening,” Chris’ voice is low, in a way Tom’s come to know as when he’s being serious, “Clover is going to be accompanying you to whatever you want to do.”

_…a babysitter._

There’s a sudden flare of anger in Tom, burning him quickly with an unadmitted bratty attitude that makes him think ‘ _you_ are supposed to be accompanying me to whatever I want to do’, but then he swallows roughly as he flicks his eyes away, feeling his throat close with a thought--

_You’re here for Chris. Not the other way around._

Right. He had a part to play here. This was business, for both of them. This wasn’t one of Richard’s little getaways from the missus that was solely for spending time and money on Tom, who was allowed to act like a spoiled brat because that’s what he’s _paid_ for.

But, no, not here. Here, with Chris, he’s a pretty little face with a nice ass that offers the drug lord momentary diversions whenever and wherever and however he wants it.

He finishes his second cup of sake, relishing the burn it causes as it runs down his throat and settles warmly in his stomach.

Chris refills his empty cup for him, silent and strong, so infuriating that Tom presses his nails into the meat of his palms.

It’s his anger that seeps from his lips, “I don’t need a babysitter,” he mutters, hating how bitter he sounds and the fact that he can’t stop it.

Chris’ face is a little pinched then, probably in annoyance or something akin to it, but he just sighs and looks at Tom, like he always does.

“He’s not babysitting you, sweetheart.”

_Don’t call me that._

“He’s keeping you safe when I can’t.”

_Don’t say that. Please._

Tom shifts in his seat, his appetite gone. He crosses his arms over his chest and looks away, unable to help the reflex of giving his client the cold shoulder whenever he isn’t given his way.

Chris mumbles frustrated Spanish under his breath, and Tom looks down at the seating as he feels Chris move over until he’s close, so close Tom can feel his breath ghosting over the nape of his neck.

“Don’t be upset with me, Thomas,” the Aussie mutters, his voice dancing across Tom’s skin.

He can smell Chris’ cologne, faintly. It makes his eyelids flutter. Still, he says nothing. He continues to wait.

For a while, Tom thinks that Chris won’t try anything. Richard would be rubbing his shoulders by now, or quietly pleading for him to talk, making promises that only money can afford.

It’s a few minutes of quiet shuffling before Chris finally speaks, his voice low and thoughtful, “I know you’re upset, and you can ignore me for the rest of the meal if you want, but please, just listen.”

Tom clenches his jaw.

“I have business, every day after tonight, for a few hours. You’ll spend those few hours with Clover, doing whatever you please. When that is done, I’m yours. You can tie me to the bed and leave me, if you want, or we can go out and have a good time. Whatever you want. I promise.”

_Promises, yuck._

“Now _you_ sound like the whore,” Tom mutters, unable to help himself. Luckily, Chris laughs, even if it’s light little chuckles.

“Anything to make you happy, baby.”

_That_ hits him like a slap from Frederick’s ringed hand.

\--

He’s not happy about being left behind, but, it’s not like he has any choice in the matter. Chris has business, it’s normal to disappear for a few hours at a time, especially in a city such as this.

At least, Tom assumes so. The fact that Chris won’t open up about his business snags Tom’s curiosity, like a fish swallowing up a hook. He has a dozen questions already, but he knows he can’t ask them. Chris hasn’t answered or revealed anything yet, so why would he now?

That doesn’t mean Tom stops trying.

After their meal, and recovering from his shock, Tom leans over and places a sweet little kiss to the corner of Chris’ mouth, pulling away as soon as he felt the Aussie trying to respond. He gives him a small smile and whispers a simple little ‘thank you’ before slipping out of the booth, running his fingers through his wild blond curls as he walks towards the entrance.

The heat of the late morning swallows him whole as he steps outside, the sun reflecting off skyscrapers and unlit signs. He pulls at his dark shirt to let some static out, feeling moisture bead on his upper lip already as he stands under the hot sun. Chris appears a moment later, a hand pressing into Tom’s lower back, firm and guiding as the black car rolls up again.

He feels Chris’ hand against his ass as he gets into the car, fingertips gently digging into the denim, and Tom decides he’s feeling a little…restless.

It’s only right to thank Chris for his meal properly.

The driver signals into the merging lane as they pull away from the curb, asking, “Where to, sir?”

Chris looks to him, brow ticked, and Tom glances back. He doesn’t have to work hard to seduce Chris today. He places his hand high on his client’s thigh and gives the firm muscle a squeeze through the tough fabric, not daring to look away just yet.

He nearly smirks when Chris clenches his jaw, his blue gaze dropping to Tom’s lips as he responds, “The Bellagio, please.”

His hand slides higher, and Tom shifts over to press his side against Chris’ arm, rubbing the rough denim under his palm again. “I thought most places wouldn’t let people check in until after three…” He mutters, also watching Chris’ mouth, admiring the stubble along his jaw and cheeks.

Chris’ hand covers his, keeping it place when Tom tries to move it closer to what he really wants, “They’ll make an exception.”

Tom smirks, settling against Chris comfortably before looking out of the tinted window.

\--

They get along the best during sex. So much goes unsaid between them, and this physicality seems to balance it all out. He can kiss Chris with his lying lips and know that the blond understands, completely, and responds accordingly. He can trust Chris to be rough but tender when needed, as soft as his eyes under the summer sun. He can be all passion, engulfing Tom with fiery kisses and heavy-handed touches.

He’ll drown in Chris every time. It’s so sickeningly sweet, like honey drizzled over his lips.

Even now, as Chris mouths at the side of his neck while Tom tries to unlock the room with the card key, tilting his head to the side with a moan when the Aussie manages to find a sensitive spot. It’s slow, it’s calculated – searching, learning. Chris grabs at him and Tom’s swept away by his barely-concealed desperation, almost squeaking when he’s plucked from the ground and carried inside once the lock gives.

He supposes it’s been a while for both of them.

The door shuts quietly behind them, and Tom loses himself in Chris’ arms, winding his own around the drug lord’s neck to keep them close.

The bed is softer than he had thought. He’s pressed into the down-filled duvet as Chris slides his tongue between his parting lips, gasping and arching underneath the weight of him. Chris, so big and strong, heavy and warm, on top of him…

“Daddy,” he whispers as those lips go to his jaw, giggling breathlessly as teeth pinch his skin while deft hands sneak between them to pull at the front of his jeans. Chris’ movements are hurried, rougher than the first time, and Tom’s already hard because of it, “Daddy, please…”

“You wet for me, baby?” Chris grunts, pushing the waist of Tom’s jeans down his small hips, “I bet you are, look at you.”

Tom whines, his face burning with shame, because it’s true, so terribly true. He rolls his hips up against Chris, rubbing himself against the rough denim, uncaring that he’s spreading pre-cum over the dark fabric.

He closes his eyes for a moment, wanting to feel the callous of Chris’ hands and the dry rub of his beard against his soft skin. When he opens them again, he’s naked, and he helps Chris remove his shirt. He sits up when Chris moves off, brushing his fingers over the hair on his client’s chest and moving down, down, until he scratches the trail of soft hairs leading to his swollen cock.

“So big, daddy,” he whispers, his eyes stuck on the thickness of Chris’ length, until he has both hands around him and uses feather-light touches to explore. He traces veins as Chris grunts over him, keeping himself up with his hands as Tom touches him, cups his balls and gives gentle little squeezes. They both moan, quietly, and Tom pushes at Chris until they’re flipped.

He presses Chris down onto the bed and straddles his thighs, lifting his hand to his mouth to lick up the length of it. He wraps his fingers around Chris’ girth, licking his lips as he dips his head to lick at the petal-soft foreskin, flicking his tongue over it with a soft sigh.

Carefully, he pulls the foreskin down, revealing the pink tip of Chris’ cock. Tom whines in the back of his throat before he opens his mouth, sticking his tongue out and slapping the tip against it, relishing the lewd little sounds it makes. Chris meets his gaze and Tom doesn’t look away as he does it again, forming his lips around the engorged head with suckling, wet kisses that has Chris groaning.

He can’t get over how thick Chris is. He’s never had the opportunity to worship his cock like this, and he isn’t going to waste this opportunity. Tom’s hand barely wraps around Chris, as he strokes him slowly and continues to suck kisses onto the length of it, tracing veins with his tongue and nibbling at the base where he buries his nose into the musky scent of him.

And he can’t deny himself for long, so he licks up to the tip and wraps his lips around it, careful to keep his teeth away as he sucks and swirls his tongue, moaning obscenely around the weight on his tongue.

“You like sucking cock, baby?” Chris murmurs, his voice soft and affectionate, and Tom opens his eyes to look up at him, “Oh, look. Such a good, pretty boy…” Chris’ hand cups his jaw, a thumb caressing his cheekbone, and Tom’s eyes close as whines and sucks.

“Can you take me deeper, baby?”

He can try.

He gags the moment Chris gets to the back of his throat, and his cheeks flush in response. He’s much better than this, usually. He tries again, and again, until there are tears in his eyes and he’s gasping for breath when Chris pulls him off by his golden curls.

He’s pressed into the bed again, Chris licking into his mouth and wiping the tears that fall onto his cheeks, whispering about how good he is and to feel how hard daddy is, baby, feel.

“I need you, daddy,” he whimpers, wrapping his limbs around Chris, clawing at his back to make sure he has angry red lines after this.

“I got you, baby,” Chris murmurs into his hair, kissing Tom’s temple before leaving the bed to grab a small packet of lube and a condom.

When he returns, Tom grabs a handful of his ass and presses their hips together, moaning shakily for Chris to hurry.

The first finger sinks in after some force, and Tom is so pliant with lust that he can’t be nervous. The second finger accompanies the first and they tease him with specific presses that leave Tom’s mouth dry and slack with the need for air. His cock is wet, and Chris teases him for it, leaving him with shameless thrusting that Chris settles with a heavy hand on Tom’s waist.

“Yes, daddy, hold me down and fuck me,” he gasps, the urge to be filled with Chris’ cock overwhelming him, “Please, daddy…”

“Easy, baby,” Chris’ voice soothes him as his fingers stretch, bending to kiss at Tom’s chest, “I don’t want to hurt you…”

Tom relaxes at the words and bites his lip, worrying it between his teeth as Chris sucks at his skin, leaving behind little love bites that will ache for that soothing tongue later on. He writhes against the bigger man, panting softly as a small wave of heat washes over him, wrapping his legs around Chris’ waist.

After a third finger, he needs Chris. He’s desperate and claws at him again, attaching his mouth to Chris’ neck as the drug lord rolls on a condom. Then, there’s hands gripping his ankles and his knees are bent into his chest slowly, easily, and Tom feels out of breath just as Chris presses the tip of his cock against his loosened entrance.

He whines at the initial push, and Chris shushes him, bending forward to kiss him as he bullies past that ring of resistance. Tom gasps wetly into the kiss and turns his head, panting and moaning, shaking and grabbing at the bedding as that thickness he had worshipped earlier spread him open again, ruining him from the inside out as it had before.

“So good, baby,” Chris huffs against his neck, pressing in, in, in until there’s no more to go and Tom whines, makes pathetic little noises as he’s stretched wide and clenching around him.

“Please,” he whispers, “Hold me down, daddy…please…” He’s going to lose himself if Chris doesn’t hold him down and _fuck_ him.

And his drug lord does, his big, strong, scary man grabs his wrists and pins them to the bed, his grip solid and bruising. Tom loves it. He moans and presses down, clenches around Chris until the Aussie is moving, thrusting slowly to build a rhythm, and when Tom offers little to no resistance, he’s fucked into the mattress like he needs.

There’s harsh breathing and slapping skin, choked moans and earthy grunts. Tom cusses under his breath and moans loudly at good thrusts, ones that make him see white and clench desperately around Chris. His lewd Chris encourages him in a dark tone to come, to make a mess of himself, to show daddy how much he loves his cock.

“Do you love daddy’s cock?” Chris pants, staring down at Tom, his good boy who’s losing it beneath him.

Tom nods frantically, panting ‘yes’ over and over again, until Chris stops suddenly.

“Tell me. Tell me how much you love daddy’s cock.”

A broken little sob leaves Tom and he opens his eyes, “I-I love daddy’s cock,” he hiccups, “Please, daddy, make me come...make me come on your big, fat cock…”

That does it for Chris; Tom cries out at the brutal thrusts, the catching of Chris’ cock inside of him, the push and pull of his inner walls until the tip is rubbing at his prostate and he just can’t take it anymore.

He comes, hard. From nothing but Chris’ cock.

Chris groans above him, pleased at the white streaking up Tom’s stomach and chest, and after a few more thrusts, empties into the condom that has Tom wondering how it would feel to be filled in that way.

His legs are lowered, just as slowly as they had been bent, and groans softly in pain as the blood begins to rush back into them. Chris hovers above him after he releases his wrists, and Tom’s quick to wrap his arms around his neck, pulling Chris down into a deep, slow kiss.

The ‘mm’ Chris gives makes Tom pull away, a look of disbelief on his face despite the afterglow still swimming through his body. He murmurs, “Did you just ‘mm’ at me?”

“Did you just pull away from me?” Chris asks in return, and Tom shakes his head in that same disbelief before he’s lifting his chin and allowing Chris to slot their mouths together again.

\--

_I hate seeing you go, but I love watching you leave._

The thought makes Tom smirk as he watches Chris leave the bed, his client’s hair a mess and his back sporting new, red scratches down the length of it. It’s a delicious sight to see, especially the two dimples on his lower back as he walks to the bathroom, humming a happy little tune as he goes.

Oh, Tom needs a cigarette.

The sweat on his skin is cooling, and his hair will need a wash. It’s wild, he knows it, but he can’t bring himself to really care as he buries deep in the bed that smells of their coupling. A musky, heady scent that Tom savours.

Chris returns, cleaned off and without a condom wrapped around his dick. Tom can still taste him on his tongue. Another thought that makes him curl his toes against the warm, white sheets.

“I’d hate to leave you so soon,” Chris mutters, settling down onto the bed again, a damp rag in hand. He looks sincere, when Tom glances up from his pillow and lifts the blanket so Chris can clean his stomach and chest for him.

His old man is a romantic, isn’t he? Tom hasn’t been cleaned up after sex before. The last few times with Chris, he’d had to clean himself.

“It’s fine.” He controls his voice this time, sounding lazy and content, despite the nagging feeling of _no_ in his mind.

Chris kisses his reddened lips gently, a firm little pressure that Tom responds to after a second of hesitation.

“I’ll be back later, ten,” he kisses Tom’s cheekbone, “Maybe eleven. Late, anyway.” Another on his temple, “Then again, tomorrow morning--”

“Will I _ever_ see you?” Tom huffs, pouting quite obviously as he closes his eyes, pushing the Aussie’s affections away.

“Yes, tomorrow afternoon. And tonight, for bed.” Chris leans over him, caging him in, and Tom tries to pretend that he hates it.

He stares up at that easy smile and fights off his own, instead lifting his chin again.

This kiss is soft, but deep. It makes his cheeks flush.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Chris sounds pained as he presses another kiss to Tom’s forehead, “I have to go.”

“I want to sleep, leave me alone.” The affection is becoming annoying, and he makes it obvious with a frown and furrowed brows.

“ _Mocoso_ ,” Chris chuckles as he finally leaves the bed and goes to change.

Tom watches him with a sleepy gaze, and says nothing as he notices that the hickey he left on Chris’ neck isn’t covered by his shirt collar.

\--

Five minutes after Chris leaves the room, dressed in his usual suit, Tom gets a call on the hotel’s phone.

He rolls over and picks up the hand-held receiver, rolling back into his spot and answering it, “Hello?”

“It’s Clover.” Of course it is. “What did you have planned for the rest of the day?”

Tom hums and checks his nails, indeed wondering what he was going to do. An evening with Clover, his big, bad babysitter.

“I’m going to shower,” he responds after a moment, his voice soft and reflective as he pushes the sheets down to look at the small red bruise blooming on his hip, “And then, I’d like to go for a walk.” What a lovely little mark Chris had left.

“Where?”

Clover’s accent is much more Spanish than Chris’. Definitely not as ridiculous. “The Strip,” he sighs, glancing over to the bright window. They hadn’t shut the curtains.

“Alright. Phone me when you’re ready.”

“Sure,” Tom mutters, repeating Clover’s room number to himself when he’s given it before hanging up and rolling over to place the sleek phone back onto its little stand.

If Chris wasn’t going to take him for a nice little walk tonight, then Clover would. Tom thought it as a little wicked sort of spite, and it did make a small bit of satisfaction settle in his stomach. Or it could be the lingering orgasm.

He tries not to think about Chris and what he could possibly be doing. Instead, he thinks about what he wants to do. He wants to walk, stretch his limbs from the travel and sex-induced cramps, especially when his legs had been folded into his chest for longer than he was used to. Chris seems to love his flexibility, and Tom will need to do some stretches to make sure he stays that way.

Halfway through his shower, he shuts it off and goes over to the pre-filled tub, gently bubbling with foam and jet streams. He balances himself on the edge with his razor in hand and, after lathering shaving cream over his leg, slowly glides it over his skin. He’s careful around his knees, not wanting a single nick. He’s extra careful with his pubic area, a look of concentration as he went into creases and contorted his body all to make sure he covered every inch. Daphne paid extra to keep him smooth and shaven below the waist – a personal preference of hers – and his other clients didn’t seem to have much of a problem with it, so Tom kept it up.

It felt good, too. The silkiness of panties or stockings against his skin was something he’d never quite experienced before, and something he was growing fond of despite all the tedious work. It heightened every touch, too. Chris’ rough jaw often left his skin pink and deliciously sensitive after some special attention.

_Chris, Chris, Chris. Stop thinking about him all the time._

He can’t help it.

\--

It’s still warm outside despite the setting sun, so Tom regrets wearing jeans. They already begin to stick to his skin as he and Clover walk down the Strip, not too far from their hotel.

Clover’s been quiet, aside from the socially expected ‘how are you’. Tom’s peachy. Showered and smooth, he was ready to take on the world. Sort of.

They’re not far down the Strip when his stomach growls and Tom decides he wants ice cream.

Clover pulls them into a shopping center and Tom browses the small windows of a shop slowly, reading labels for the handmade gelato in silver little tubs lined together.

“Strawberry, please,” he tells the girl taking his order, and he moves aside as Clover steps forward while brushing his sweater back to reach his wallet.

His eyes catch on the cold metal gleam of a handgun, tucked safely in the back of Clover’s pants, before he flicks his eyes to the small stack of bills in his old leather wallet. He’s sure Chris has ordered him to pay for whatever he wants tonight, because it seems like something Chris would do.

Nevertheless, he mutters “Thank you,” around a small spoonful of strawberry cream and ice, taking a seat across from Clover, his big bad babysitter.

“Thank Chris,” he mutters back in his deep accent again, looking at Tom with his dark eyes for a second before looking out into the crowds passing by the little shop, “He wants to spoil you.”

His voice is a little tense. Hmm. “Don’t like that idea?” Tom asks softly, leaning onto the table and curling his tongue around the little green spoon. Clover meets his gaze again, so he ticks his eyebrow.

And Clover says nothing, just looks out the window again, scanning the crowd for threat.

Tom won’t let it go, “Is it because of what I am?” He whispers, digging his utensil back into the soft pink dessert.

The dark-haired man sits back in his chair with a newfound frown, his beefy arms crossing over his chest as he eyes Tom, “This sounds like an interrogation.”

Tom can’t help but to grin around his plastic spoon then, slightly crooked teeth showing as he does so, “I’m just curious…” He hums, glancing back down at his gelato.

Clover isn’t Chris, he shouldn’t be able to read Tom in the same way. To him, Tom’s just a guy his boss pays to fuck, and is paid to look after him when Chris isn’t there. That’s all. And now this guy is questioning him.

The next few scoops of gelato cool him off, and then he asks, “Aren’t you hot in that?” While eyeing Clover’s sweater.

“No,” Clover shakes his head, meeting Tom’s gaze again, “It is hotter in Columbia. This, I can stand.”

“Do you spend most of your time there?” He asks next, hitting the bottom of his cup. He scrapes at it, gathering the melting ice cream into the small dip of the spoon.

“You,” Clover chuckles suddenly, looking at Tom with an expression the blond reads as vaguely amused, “Are very curious.”

“That’s what Chris says, too.” _So it must be true_. He slides the paper cup to sit between them, licking his strawberry flavoured lips as he shifts in his seat. He laces his fingers together and leans into the table, staring at the tough man across from him, another stranger he’s supposed to trust. “I can’t help it, I guess.”

Clover sniffs, one side of his nose wrinkling with the action, and he looks out to the crowd again, “Chris does not like too many questions, keep that in mind. Especially if you are going to be spending a few days with him.”

_That_ is what Tom wanted to hear.

“Oh?” His eyebrow ticks again, “Why’s that?”

“He has a temper,” Clover runs his tongue over his teeth, “He is…a complex man, with many sides to him.”

“How long have you worked with him?” Tom can’t help but to ask, his brows furrowing slightly.

“Longer than any of his other men,” he mutters, and Tom’s eyes widen a little, despite Clover’s reluctance to answer with a number, “I have seen him at his worst, and now, best. I would call him a friend if it did not have special meaning to it.”

Tom smirks, just a little, “Anyone who takes a bullet for me can call themselves my friend.”

“It is different,” Clovers mutters, frowning a little now, looking at Tom again, “Chris, is different.”

“Yeah, I’m sure he is,” Tom sighs, grabbing his trash from the table and standing, “Why not tell me about it while we walk?”

\--

Clover is just as private as Tom. He won’t say much about himself, but from what Tom’s heard, he is a very loyal man with respectable rankings. Not that taking orders from a drug lord was very respectable, but in that field, sure. In short, Clover killed whoever he or Chris deemed worthy of death, be it someone who double crossed him or was a potential threat. He even had his own men. Clover didn’t laugh much, but he did have a charming little smirk. It appeared after Tom had attempted a bad joke. Nevertheless, he spends most of his time looking out into the crowds surrounding them and keeping Tom close enough to ward off anyone who tries to grab him. Luckily, no one had tried.

“Chris does not like questions because it is suspicious,” he remembers Clover saying as they walked down the neon-lit Strip, the sky now dark, “In this business, suspicious leads to threat, and threat leads to dead. Simple as that.”

He’s not sure if Clover told him that because Tom was ‘innocent’ or something like that. Clover wouldn’t tell that sort of information to someone who he thought didn’t need it. It sparked something inside Tom, instantly.

The fact that he couldn’t ask Chris questions was a tricky situation to be in. Was that why Chris was so reluctant to answer him? Did he think of Tom as corrupted by some other drug lord or cop that was solely in this for information? Information that could possibly bring him down?

_Shit._

He needed to prove himself, somehow. Some way that didn’t involve him spreading his legs.

When he returns to the hotel, Clover escorts him up, and checks both the hallway and room before he allows Tom to enter.

“Is Chris really in this much danger?” Tom asks softly as he stands at the door before stepping in, holding his arm with the other hand. He hadn’t meant to look so vulnerable, because Clover has a look of acute pity on his scarred face.

“Yes, and he probably always will be.”

Tom stares at the rug beneath his feet, letting Clover’s words sink in, before the muscled man passes him and wishes him a goodnight. Tom barely hears his reminder to call if he needs anything before he lifts his head, and says goodnight to the closing door that locks shut behind him.

\--

He doesn’t think for a while. He turns on his autopilot and goes about the room, dressing into something light and comfortable; easy to remove by wandering, groping hands. He turns the A/C high, wanting the coolness while he sleeps. He replaces the rectangular packet of lube and squared package of a condom with new ones from his toiletry bag, placing them conveniently on Chris’ bedside table within easy reach. He brushes his teeth and flosses, stares at himself, the baby-faced boy with little golden ringlets. He needed a haircut, unless he was paid not to.

After that, he shuts the lights. All of them, even the dull blue glow from the alarm clock. With grunts and curses, he moves one of the two heavy arm chairs towards the window, facing the city. It casts the room in a hazy glow, and as he settles down into the plush seat in a tangle of limbs, he wishes for a cigarette.

He watches the nightlife quietly, thumbing at his lower lip as he imagines what’s happening at home.

Home. His home is wherever he lays his head, but, this isn’t it, not yet. Home is safety that isn’t fleeting, with love warm enough to melt you. Here, he’s cold and alone. Here, he’s an escort that happened to get lucky. He has no friends here; nowhere, in fact. He hasn’t had a friend in a very long time.

Tears burn his eyes suddenly, and the signs of the Strip begin to wobble and tremble, going out of focus before Tom closes his eyes and breathes.

When he opens his eyes again, the Strip is fine and the door is opening behind him.

He sees Chris in the reflection, hears the locks a second later.

“Thomas?”

“What?” He mutters, flicking his eyes down as Chris crosses the room. His footsteps are light, and Tom can smell the liquor and smoke clinging to his suit.

It’s oddly comforting.

“What on earth are you doing?” Chris chuckles softly, rounding the armchair to crouch in front of Tom. His eyes are tired but they’re smiling, as are his lips. Tom stares at him in the dim light of the city and can’t remember how to breathe.

“Admiring,” he finally whispers, a little breathless.

Chris smiles and stares back, the warmth of him already melting Tom’s icy skin. He reaches forward and gently pinches Tom’s chin between his curled forefinger and the pad of his thumb; a repeated affection that always seems to comfort the Brit.

“I’m going to shower, then we’ll go to bed, alright?”

He almost tells Chris not to bother, but instead, nods. Sure.

When the bathroom door shuts behind him, Tom stands and goes towards the bed, lifting the covers and sliding onto the cool sheets. It’s unbearably big and empty.

He tries to sleep again while he waits for Chris, curled into himself but still too cold to sleep. After a short time passes, the bathroom opens and the light shuts after the sound of a towel drops.

“Come to bed,” Tom whispers into the darkness, eyes still focused on the window, hoping Chris hadn’t put on anything yet.

“Sweetheart, we already had sex today.”

Tom furrows his brows, “I know.” Why does that matter? “So?”

“I’m exhausted, and it’s freezing in here. I need clothes.”

_Oh._

“I’ll keep you warm…”

He doesn’t hear anything for a moment before the other side of the covers are lifted and Tom smirks to himself, pleased.

His smirk grows into a smile when he feels Chris settle down behind him, spooning him effectively with an arm going to his front so a hand can rest on his chest. Chris’ hand is big, and warm, and Tom’s heart beats steadily under it.

For once, he’s clothed and his client is naked.

“How was your evening?” Chris murmurs into the nape of his neck.

“Good,” Tom decides after a moment, really thinking about it, “We went for a walk and he bought me gelato.” He left out the bit where he and Clover had talked about him.

Chris hums a small ‘mmm’ behind him, and Tom licks his lips, keeping his voice low, “It was strawberry. Thank you.”

“Anything for you,” Chris mumbles, and Tom squeezes his eyes shut. “Goodnight, sweetheart. I’ll wake you for breakfast tomorrow.”

He mutters back ‘goodnight’ and opens his eyes to stare out of the window from his spot, a fluffy pillow under his head and a drug lord behind him.

There’s no sex.

Just a firm hold around his waist and a weight on his chest.


	8. Love Interruption

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [I'm The Only One](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wD1AczTlhoo)

Slow, deep, even breathing. A cool breeze against his arms, soft fabric against his fingertips. A lingering warmth wrapped around his body, keeping him safe and tucked away from the dangers outside of this bed. A soft humming, distant but low, a rumbling in a chest, not enough to wake him but enough to make him smile in his sleep.

Fingers wrap around his ankle, cold enough to startle him awake.

He jerks and lifts his upper body onto his forearms, glancing frantically around the room with blurry eyes as he takes in his surroundings – he’s in Vegas, sleeping in Chris’ bed. He’s fine.

Once the panic settles, the annoyance of being suddenly woken flares, and he glares over his shoulder to see the source of his awakening perched on the foot of the bed, smirking at him with tired eyes but still looking ridiculously handsome and sleepy.

“ _Buenos días, sol._ ” Chris hums, his grip on Tom’s ankle tightening for a second.

Tom kicks him off with a pout and buries his face into his pillow, muttering curses to Chris under his breath. His client climbs back up the bed, slowly, and then Tom feels a warm, heavy weight on his back.

“Chriiiiis,” he whines, his brows furrowing as he turns his head to breathe properly. Being squished under a muscled Aussie isn’t the way he wants to go.

“How was your sleep?” Chris asks in a gentle voice as he lays even gentler kisses to Tom’s clothed shoulder.

His sleep had been too short and too fitful. He was used to sex, then sleep. He had stared out of the window for a long time, startled from his doze every time the fountains went off with a loud, thunderous ‘boom’ and the accompanying music started. It had all been muffled, but still enough to wake him.

“Fine,” he grunts, keeping his eyes firmly shut, “Until someone woke me so _rudely_ …”

Chris chuckles, and Tom - despite his annoyance - appreciates the sound.

“Get under the covers,” he suddenly whispers, a quiet order that Chris follows. He takes his time sliding under the duvet and sheets, and Tom allows the Aussie to roll him onto his side so they’re facing one another.

A quick lift of the covers, and Tom’s pleased to know that Chris is still nude.

“Shameless,” he tuts softly, and Chris moves closer, intent clear on his face as he ducks his head in an attempt to connect their lips.

Tom lifts his hand and covers the blond’s mouth, a disgusted look on his face as he states, “Not until you brush your teeth.”

Chris gives him a look with a lift of his brow, clearly unamused, and reaches up to pry the hand from his mouth. Tom yelps and turns away as Chris moves in again, quick as a fox, with a betraying chuckle flitting from between the Brit’s lips as Chris tries to wrestle him down and get his morning kiss.

“No!” Tom finds himself laughing as Chris pins his wrists to the bed and straddles him with surprising ease, looking down at him with a purely predatory grin.

“I’ve got you, darling,” Chris chuckles darkly, and Tom squeezes his eyes shut as he waits for the kiss.

It doesn’t come.

Slowly, he cracks one eye open, seeing Chris above him. His tanned skin and blue eyes contrast against the white ceiling and his hair falls into his face, gently skirting his cheekbones. His jaw is as rough as it always is, and Tom swallows thickly.

Chris speaks first, licking his lips and muttering, “Say: _bésame._ ”

Tom scrunches his nose, “Why?”

“So I can kiss you.”

He clenches his jaw and shakes his head, “No. I don’t want a kiss.”

“Oh, but surely you want _my_ kiss.”

“You’re the last person on this earth that I want to kiss,” Tom says stiffly, even lifting his chin as an act of defiance.

Chris, the handsome devil, raises an eyebrow quizzically, asking in a deep voice, “Oh?”

“Yes,” Tom huffs, struggling against the Aussie’s hold, “I hate kissing you. In fact, I charge you an extra hundred dollars for every kiss you give me.”

His drug lord looks a little more amused now, “Is that so?” He hums, lowering himself so he can press his naked self against the smaller body beneath his.

Tom barely contains his gasp as he feels Chris press against his hip, instead licking his lips and unconsciously spreading his legs, “Yes,” he whispers, looking up into those blue depths of Chris’ eyes, damn him, “I would rather kiss…” He trails off, feeling his heart begin to hammer in his chest as Chris settles between his thighs.

“Kiss…?” Chris murmurs, and Tom knows he’s mocking him, that this Australian-Spanish bastard knows just how much he affects Tom, even after such little time together.

After a moment, he gathers his wits, “I’d rather kiss every other person on this planet than you,” he finally murmurs, his heart not behind the statement, and Chris glances down at his lips as he hums.

“I’m sure these lips have kissed many before me,” he mutters, and he isn’t wrong, “But I like to pretend that they are only for me…”

What a selfish thought. Tom feels a fingertip against his mouth then, his thin lips traced slowly, with Chris’ eyes focused solely on them. He watches Chris intensely, admires the way the sun reflects off him, and finally purses his lips to kiss the Aussie’s fingertip to humour him.

“There’s your kiss,” he murmurs, and Chris smiles as he presses his finger against his own mouth.

_It’s better than nothing_ , Tom supposes.

\--

Chris orders breakfast for them while Tom sits by the window and stares out, watching the city quietly and in deep thought.

Of course, he wonders what to do. Chris will be gone for a few hours, which leaves him time to spend with Clover. Perhaps he could go shopping. He’d have to figure out what he and Chris would do later, too. The possibilities were endless in this city, and Tom had to narrow them all down to one evening. He had no idea how tomorrow would go, but he suspected he’d need to figure that out, as well.

There was so much planning to do, and he was just supposed to be spreading his legs throughout the trip. Chris really liked to make him work, didn’t he?

_What does Chris do to work?_

He flicks his eyes to the giant _Paris_ balloon and rubs his thumb against his lip, wishing for a cig, but slips back into his thoughts as he hears Chris close the bathroom door.

Perhaps he’s meeting with his buyer or transporter or something. He smelt like a cheating husband last night, liquor and smoke on his clothes, but the only marks on him had been the ones Tom had left. Perhaps he had been gambling, raising the stakes for himself a little, with a pretty woman by his side. He’d let her roll the dice for him, give them a little good luck kiss—

A bit of jealousy burns Tom’s heart, and he quickly shoves the thought away.

Chris is an actor, just like him. He’d do it just to keep an image up. Chris would love to gamble, he was a conman, after all. The risk was a shot of adrenaline that went throughout your body; Tom felt the same thing every time he went to meet someone new. The possibilities, the disappointments, the quick fuck or slow torturous coupling that would happen. It was new and always scary and always entertaining.

The only difference was death. Chris killed, Tom didn’t. Their rushes were different, but produced the same dreaded, damning effect: sin. Lust and greed? Pride? Gluttony? Wrath? He and Chris were different, sure, but not with this.

What did Chris want from all of this, anyway? The money? The power? He had said there was nothing else he knew, nothing but this, the dealing and people pleasing and endless lies. He’s good at it. Just like Tom. He knows only how to fuck people and lie to their faces to please them.

They’re the same fucking mess and Tom can’t believe it.

He has the sudden urge to see it from Chris’ side; the dealing and hush-hush agreements, the fiery Spanish and ordering his men around. What is Chris like when he’s working? He has to be different from the smiling, warm-eyed man that Tom knows. He’s probably all stony glares and tense words, grim smiles and relentless strength. He’s probably a stone cold killer with an unbreakable heart.

_He could hurt you, too._

But that’s what makes it so exciting. How much can he push Chris? How many questions does he have to ask before there’s a gun barrel pressed against his head--

He blinks back into reality when Chris kisses him, so suddenly and without warning, breaking him from his thoughts. Tom shoves him away quickly, perhaps a little harder than necessary, and resists the urge to smack him in a violent outburst.

They stare at one another, Tom’s eyes wide in alarm and Chris looking a little worried.

“What the fuck was that for?” Tom asks, his voice shaking a little, reaching up to wipe at his mouth as shock settles into his body.

“You were staring at nothing,” Chris frowns, his handsome face lined with worry, “I was talking to you, you didn’t answer, even when I stood in front of you.”

“So you kissed me?!”

“What else was I supposed to do?” Chris looks a little angry now, that temper Clover had mentioned last night making another appearance, just as it had that second night they spent together.

Still, Tom’s shaken, and he half-shouts, “Nudge me like a normal person, maybe?!”

Chris rolls his eyes and straightens, muttering Spanish under his breath and walking away, ending the small argument.

Tom takes a deep breath to steady his nerves, and brings his knees up to his chest.

He doesn’t think anymore. He can’t think when Chris is around. Even that gets him into trouble.

\--

He escapes to the shower, naturally. He brushes past Chris near the bed and locks the bathroom door behind him, turning the shower on until steam fills the room and his skin blooms pink under the heat of the spray. He scrubs with one of the face towels and his own body wash, getting every inch of his skin, until he’s clean and calmed down.

Chris had only meant well. He was a romantic, wasn’t he? Kissing was natural to him. Tom would simply have to get used to it. His other clients didn’t kiss him often, so it was a surprise to have Chris constantly pressing their mouths together for a second or two throughout the day. At least, that’s what Tom was preparing himself for.

He wasn’t good with affection. He’s used to slapping and punching, having hurtful words hurled at him through drunken slurs or angry, clenched teeth. He’s used to being used, not appreciated or thought of. It’s exhausting.

When he exits the shower, Chris is sitting by the window, eating his breakfast on the little table and reading the paper. He’s showered already, and dressed in a suit, without the jacket. He’s styled his hair, and for a second Tom is upset that he had missed out on that.

Their eyes meet, and Tom stands there awkwardly, hoping the Aussie would say something.

He doesn’t. He just picks up a piece of bacon and chews on it, returning to his newspaper.

Tom sighs, gently, and goes to pick out an outfit.

After a moment of pushing clothes aside, and the near-frantic rustling, he realizes: he’s forgotten extra underwear.

“Shit.”

Chris’ fork clinks gently against his plate, and he clears his throat before asking, “What?”

Tom shuffles through his luggage one more time before sighing in defeat, “I forgot extra briefs…” He mutters, feeling the tips of his ears colour in embarrassment. He hates going without underwear.

The blush spreads to his face when Chris says, “I have clean ones, borrow a pair if you want.”

And Tom can’t stand the feeling of his balls against the fabric of his jeans, so he relents and goes to flip open Chris’ suitcase. His expensive dress clothes have been hung up, but socks and briefs and pyjamas and casual clothing remain. Tom shuffles through them, picks up a dark blue pair of briefs, and checks the tag.

It’s too big, he already knows it, but he drops his towel anyway and slips them on.

They’re soft, but definitely big. He rolls the waistband down a few times so it sits comfortably on his hips, and glances over to see Chris failing to hide a smirk behind his newspaper.

“It’s not funny,” Tom mutters, closing the suitcase and going back to his own.

“It is, a little,” Chris responds as he picks up another piece of bacon, “Come here and eat, before your food gets cold.”

Tom walks over to his chair that Chris had returned to its original place, and sat. He stared at Chris across the small table with a pout before reaching over to lift the silver cover from his plate. Bacon, eggs, an English muffin, and fruit.

“Thanks,” Tom mutters as he picks up a shining knife and dips it into a small packet of marmalade.

“For the food or my underwear?”

Tom shoots his client a look, and Chris purses his lips to keep from smiling.

“Both, I suppose. It’s not every day I get to wear a drug lord’s underwear.”

Chris flips the loud, crinkling pages of his newspaper as he hums, “I’m glad to have been your first.”

“Of course you are,” Tom mutters under his breath, taking a bite of his English muffin.

They’re quiet throughout the rest of their breakfast, Tom taking sips of the coffee Chris had ordered for him, and he finishes almost all of the food before he sits back and stares at his plate.

Chris sets his newspaper down, and Tom flicks his eyes up to him, catching his eye again.

“I’m sorry,” Chris mutters, his voice a low rumble in his seriousness, “For earlier.”

Tom waves him off, “I overreacted. I’m just not used to…” He looks away, one leg coming up to his chest and an arm wrapping around it.

Chris stares at him with furrowed brows, like he’s trying to figure him out, before he asks, “Used to what?”

_Lie. Don’t tell him the truth. You’ll only make things worse._

“Used to…” Tom licks his lips and glances over at the blond again, “This.”

“Sweetheart, I’m not following.”

Of course he isn’t.

But, Tom can’t say it. He can’t speak the truth so easily when he’s trained himself to lie. He knows he has to be truthful to get Chris to trust him, but he _can’t_.

“I…” He begins, his brows furrowing, “I just…I’m scared.” It’s not exactly the truth, but it’s not a lie, either. He can settle for a happy medium.

Chris is all frowns, though. “Is Clover not enough? I can get another--”

“No,” Tom interrupted, hating the idea of having two men with him, “Clover’s fine, he’s great. I’m not worried about my…protection.” He curled into himself completely, knees against his chest and his brows furrowed as he stared at the ground. He was cold.

“Then, what is it? Tell me. Please, Thomas.”

“It’s not that easy,” Tom let out a dry laugh, glancing over at his concerned Chris, “It’s…just in my head, I guess. Forget I said anything,” he shook his head, looking away just as Chris got up from his seat and went to kneel in front of him. Tom turned to face him, putting on a curious look.

“You are completely safe, Thomas,” the blond murmured, his voice soft and sincere, “You have no reason to doubt me. If Clover doesn’t make you feel safe, then I’ll rush back today and we can spend the day together. It will only be a couple of hours.”

_A couple hours of what?_

Tom stares at him for a while, still looking upset and spoiled with a pout on his lips, but he eventually nods in agreement, “Okay.”

Chris kisses him again, softly, and Tom presses his fingernails into his palms.

\--

Clover shows up half an hour after Chris leaves, a promise of a show and dinner as his client’s farewell before he’s gone from Tom’s sight but not his mind. He fills the time with taking pictures of himself in nothing but the crisp white bed, appearing shy as he snapped a few to send to his other clients back home with a playful message of ‘miss you xox’ attached to them.

He’s halfway through replying to Richard when there’s a knock at the door. He answers it after pulling on Chris’ underwear and a shirt.

“Well,” Clover sighs as he leans against the doorframe, giving Tom a look, “Where to?”

The Strip is just as busy as yesterday, and Tom leads them down it, hands stuffed into his pockets as he thinks.

He could ask Clover where Chris is. Idly mention it, hopefully get something out of it.

No, it was too obvious.

“Hot one today,” Clover mutters from beside Tom, and the Brit looks over in surprise.

“Yeah,” he agrees softly, eyeing the same black sweater his bodyguard had worn last night, “Should have left that in your room.”

It’s the first time Clover has initiated conversation between them. Last night, Tom had to chatter on about random things to fill the weird silence. He had assumed Clover to be not much of a talker, but perhaps he had been wrong.

“Would you take me shopping?” He asks, after a moment, “I want to buy something for tonight.”

“What’s tonight?” Clover asks in return, stopping Tom and pulling out his cell phone.

Tom watches him scroll through a list of numbers before selecting one and lifting the disposable phone to his ear, “A show and dinner, with Chris.” He mutters, wondering about the small shopping centre near their hotel. Via Bellagio, was it? Tom had seen designer brands, anyway, and thought to buy something expensive there. He wanted to push his luck a little.

“Chris will spend all of his money on you here, won’t he?”

There’s no bitterness in Clover’s voice today, just a light teasing tone that, again, surprises him. Tom shrugs and hides his smile by looking around them, settling into that familiar black Mercedes when it rolls up next to them.

\--

There’s a bigger shopping centre just north of the Strip, and Tom’s sure his jaw has dropped to the floor. It’s _huge_.

“I do not think we will have time to walk the entire place today,” Clover mutters from beside him, “Chris wants a meeting with me and the other guys around three.”

“Oh?” Tom blinks and looks over at him, “Yeah, sure. We shouldn’t be long.”

He’s so very wrong.

First, he can’t choose where to start. There are so many shops to go to, he’s almost overwhelmed, until a Valentino store pops up and he _has_ go in.

An older yet fashionable lady helps him shop while Clover takes a seat on a padded bench and constantly checks his phone, glancing around the place now and then as Tom tries on different styles of shoes and shirts, and a leather jacket that is to _die_ for.

“I love it,” Tom sighs, looking at himself in the mirror, even though it’s really impractical in this sort of weather.

“It’s just over three thousand,” the lady smiles politely, and Tom flicks his eyes to Clover in the mirror.

His babysitter shrugs, but Tom puts it back.

He leaves, and finds the cutest leather ankle boots at a Saint Laurent Paris. They’re only just over a thousand, and Clover hands him a hard, disposable plastic card when they get to the register.

He’s on top of the world when they stop for frozen yogurt.

“Why don’t you buy yourself something?” Tom asks as Clover dispenses vanilla bean ice cream into his cup.

“I am not into these big brands,” Clover makes a face, pulling his cup away and following Tom towards the long section of toppings.

“I can tell, from the state of your wallet,” Tom hums as he scoops fruit into his cup, “It’s nice to spoil yourself once in a while.”

“Yes, you would know best, hmm?” Clover smirks, and Tom shoots him a look.

“I am not constantly spoiled, as you so believe,” Tom flourishes as he grabs the caramel sauce and drizzles it over his fruit and yogurt, “I live a modest life. I have a small apartment, all by myself. I live off Netflix and eat takeout often.”

“So, you are not always out being spoiled?” Clover asks, placing a few chocolate chip cookies into the side of his cup.

“No!” Tom sighs, “I’m not a sugar baby. Anymore.”

“Anymore?” Clover asks, following Tom to the register.

“Yes, free money is always nice, isn’t it?”

“No,” the man shakes his head, “Not at all. I like working for money, I like to earn what I get.”

Tom glances over at him then, his interest piqued, “Is that so?”

Clover pays for them and takes them to a small table in the corner, hidden away from the windows of the shop, and sits down across from Tom. “Yes. I cannot imagine a life without work.”

“Actually, this reminds me of a book I read once,” Tom says suddenly, pointing his plastic pink spoon at Clover, “ _Candide_ , by Voltaire. Ever read it?”

“No, I do not read much.”

Made sense. Clover’s more of a guns-and-girls type of guy. “It’s about a man who’s thrown from his life of luxury and blissful ignorance into the harsh reality of the ‘real world’. He suffers greatly from different hardships and begins to question the philosophy he grew up with. In the end, he realizes that in order to live happily, you must work. Without work, your life is meaningless.”

One of Clover’s scarred eyebrows lifts, “It sounds like a good read.”

“It is,” Tom agrees, spooning a mouthful of yogurt into his mouth, “You should read it, it’s not long at all. Short chapters, flows nicely…”

“You are a reader, then?”

“Huge reader. I love the classics.”

The older man nods, “Suits you.”

“Thanks, I guess.”

People who liked to work and earn things were genuine people. He was glad Clover was one of them.

“What about you?” His bodyguard asks, and Tom glances up from his cup, raising a brow in question. “Do you work for what you have?”

Tom glances away and lets out a dry laugh, “Yeah, always. Dirty work.”

Clover frowns, and Tom shifts in his seat, wondering what to say. The Columbian speaks first, “I get it.”

He can’t help the skeptical look he gives the man, “Do you?”

“Of course I do,” Clover returns the look with one of disbelief, as if he can’t believe Tom would even say such a thing, “We are not very different.”

It was like earlier, when he suddenly realized that he and Chris weren’t all that different. Clover worked for Chris, and maybe saw more than his boss did.

After a somber moment of Tom scraping the top of his yogurt slowly, he mutters, “You’re right. Although, a frozen yogurt shop isn’t the greatest place to talk about it.”

“ _Do_ you want to talk about it?”

Tom furrows his brows down at the blueberry that rolls into the dip of his spoon. Does he?

_No. Not now._ “Tell me what Chris does when he’s not with me.”

At that, Clover only laughs, and savours his melting treat.

\--

A man in a red shirt that reads ‘Hot _Ass_ CortsNow.com’ hands Tom and Clover a small picture of a nude woman with little stars censoring her nipples, and Tom sneers at him before flicking the picture away.

Those poor girls.

Clover looks at his own busty brunette for a moment before he tosses it to the ground, asking, “Why are you so curious about Chris?”

“Because he won’t tell me anything himself.” Tom huffs, reading the various signs they pass by as they walk. The sun is hot on his skin, warming him and he hopes it doesn’t burn later.

“Maybe that is for your own good?” Clover suggests, and Tom gives him a look of a wrinkled nose and squinted eyes.

“Don’t give me that, Cloves.”

“You gave me a nickname for my nickname?”

Tom shrugs, and it draws another chuckle from the man walking next to him.

“Take me to New York. I hear they have a Hershey’s chocolate factory.”

They walk, naturally, and Clover’s lips are still sealed. No matter how much Tom prods, how much he suggests, he won’t say a thing.

Until Tom’s picking out Kisses as an inside joke for Chris. Only then, Clover says in a hushed voice, “He has a history with the buyer, so he tries to please him in order to get as much as he can out of it. Less hassle on his part.”

Chris knew the buyer. He was buttering him up, make him relax and ensure that everything went according to plan, if there is one. Treat him like an old friend, perhaps? Maybe even take his buyer out on the town, and then breakfast, full of signing papers and corrupt lawyers. Even then, _why_ does Chris bother? Does it somehow ensure future deals? It must, he couldn’t think of why it wouldn’t. If Chris gave _him_ this star treatment every time he booked Tom for a week, he’d go, willingly.

Still, though: what does Chris _do_?

Oh, he has to know.

\--

Clover takes him back to the Bellagio just before three. Apparently, Chris had called a meeting for all five of his men (Tom had to practically drag that number out of his babysitter), and Clover was expected to give a short little debriefing of his time with Tom (did that mean Chris knew about the strawberry gelato before Tom told him?) so that meant he was alone until after that.

He wished Clover a good meeting, realized how dumb that sounded _after_ the Columbian had left, and went to put his chocolates away. There had been a deal, so Tom had left with four bags of Kisses, but kept one out and placed it on Chris’ side of the bed, hoping he’d get the little joke.

And, an hour later, he does. Chris returns looking just as tired as he did this morning, but still smiles for Tom. He laughs and gives Tom a kiss; a real one. It gets a little carried away, and then before Tom knows it, he’s mussing Chris’ hair and sucking his tongue into his mouth while his drug lord shrugs off his suit jacket.

He has his leg hooked over Chris’ hip, naked and smooth under Chris’ touch, and he moans wetly into Chris’ neck as those thick fingers push and pull inside him. He’s drowning in everything Chris; his touch, taste, scent…he moans and sucks another mark into the Aussie’s neck to try and muffle any other sounds.

Chris takes both their cocks into his hand, pumping, and Tom rolls them over so he can straddle the man’s waist and rock into his hand. It’s all heat and tight grips, slick from pre-spending, and Tom shudders violently on top of Chris when he comes.

His daddy’s dress shirt is ruined, but Chris only smothers him in hot kisses. Wraps his arms around Tom and cages him in underneath his body, and kisses him. Tom winds his thin arms around Chris’ neck and welcomes those lips, that rough jaw burning his skin with every pass, the new mark bit and sucked into his pale skin, just below his ear.

He calls Chris a mean name for it, a blush high on his cheeks, and Chris mutters his adorations that make Tom almost sick to his stomach from all the butterflies fluttering around in it.

“Don’t shower, I’m not done with you just yet.” Chris winks at him as he changes his shirt, and Tom’s eyes widen a little in response.

“You just like me smelling like you, you dirty old man…”

Chris doesn’t deny it.

\--

He feels…nice. Dark jeans, a dark green shirt, and his new boots make Tom feel like he fits in with his drug lord lover.

Chris, of course, opts for a slightly more dressed look, and wants to drive down the Strip.

“You’re insane – we’re walking.”

Chris’ arguments fall on deaf ears, so when Tom turns on his new leather heel, Chris sighs and follows. Tom even lets him place a hand on his lower back, possessive and cautious in the way he hovers beside the Brit. It’s oddly endearing.

“So, how was work?” Tom asks, ignoring the stares they received from those passing by. Chris’ eyes, hidden behind sunglasses, are sharp on the crowds.

“Fine,” he mutters, “Why?”

“Why, what?”

“Why does it matter?”

Tom shrugs, and feels Chris’ hand slide around to his waist when the crowd gets a little thick. He’s obviously being overprotective, but Tom can’t really blame him. He’s a drug lord in Las Vegas, out in the open, failing to disappear in the crowd when he’s a foot taller than everyone.

Maybe the car was the better choice.

“Where have you already stayed?” He asks, in a soft voice as he leans into Chris, and listens to him as he lists off various hotels.

Chris takes them all the way down the Strip to this little place with a big name of _Joël Robuchon_ , where Chris had been told that it was like dining in Paris. Tom, of course, was excited. Chris was a bit of a foodie, it seemed.

Once the reservation was cleared and they were lead inside, Tom had to keep himself in check. The place was _beautiful_ , with its deep purple accents and intimate atmosphere. They were lead into a more open dining space, where an entire wall looked like it was nothing but thick shrubbery, at least twenty feet high. He sat across from Chris, and looked around while their menus were placed in front of him.

When he finally picked up the piece of paper, his eyes nearly jumped out of their sockets.

The first, basic menu for one person was worth _one hundred and twenty-seven dollars._

“Okay, sweetheart, pick your appetizer, main course, and desserts.”

“Chris,” he clears his throat gently, watching Chris glance up from his own menu, brows furrowed slightly in question.

“Yes?”

“I…uh.” He can’t say it. Chris is too generous—or stupid, with his money.

“Is it the price?” Chris asks, his voice low, and Tom closes his mouth to nod slowly, his eyebrow ticked on the inside. It always did when he worried.

“Don’t worry, I’m sure it’s worth it. I promise.”

Oh, Clover was right.

_You can pay him back later._

Right. Chris was already expecting something from him.

A little more familiar with the situation of give-and-take, Tom settled down and began to read the menu again. It was mostly in French, and when Chris had begun to tell him what they were, Tom interrupted him by spewing a bit of the language to him.

Chris’ eyes, like Tom’s had been, were wide in surprise.

“You know French?”

“A little,” he mutters, avoiding Chris’ gaze, “I learnt in school.”

“You only continue to surprise me.”

Tom can hear the smile in that.

“Are you ready to order?”

“ _Oui._ ”

Chris chuckles and waves over a hovering waiter.

\--

The dinner is much like the atmosphere: quiet and intimate. He asks where Chris has been, and the answer was a little vague. He asks how his meal is, it’s great, try some. All of the questions he really wants to ask are kept to himself; he takes this time to learn a bit more about his client.

Chris likes to listen to music; jazz and rhythm and blues, specifically. Something slow that makes him feel it beneath his skin. Tom had giggled at that. But, when asked, Tom shrugged and said he liked anything he could dance to.

“You like to go dancing?” Chris asked, digging his fork into his lovely little plated _L’Œuf de poule._

Tom nodded, “I like to dance. It makes me happy.” Although, he hadn’t been dancing for a very long time. He had liked to go with his friends, they’d sneak out on weekends and dance and drink until the sun came up and Tom would pass out the moment he crawled back in through his bedroom window.

“I’ll take you dancing sometime before we leave.” Chris decides, and Tom looks up at him, surprised.

He doesn’t say anything, instead offers Chris a bite of his appetizer, and they settled back into that comfortable silence. Until Chris asks what Tom’s favourite movie is.

“That’s the worst question to ask someone, Chris.”

“It’s very telling about their personality.”

“ _Yeah_ , because you’re a people reader.”

He waits for the bait to be caught, but Chris just shrugs without saying a word about his conman days, looking around the restaurant in the same way Clover scanned for a threat.

“I don’t have one,” he mutters, after a moment passes, and Chris raises a brow.

“Neither do I.”

Tom smiles as he lifts a spoonful of soup to his lips.

They’re finished their appetizers when he notices that Chris keeps glancing over to a table behind Tom. He asks what it is, and Chris says it’s nothing but Tom knows that he’s lying. Still, he says nothing. He asks if Chris was originally from Australia or Columbia, and is told that he grew up on a ranch and often played in the Outback with his brothers, among other things.

“How many do you have?”

“Two. I’m the middle.”

“Oh, that explains a lot.” Tom smirks, taking a sip of their shared glass of wine. For some reason, Chris had refused two separate glasses. It was probably a romantic thing.

“What about you?”

“Two sisters. Middle, too.”

“How cruel,” Chris chuckles, “I hear that sisters are worse than brothers.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Tom shrugs, “I didn’t live with them long. My mum took them when I was young.”

Chris’ face falls from the smile and the feeling around them sobers. Shit.

_Why are you so stupid?_

“I’m sorry,” Chris mutters, “Does that mean you lived with your--”

 “--father, yes,” he whispers back, interrupting the Aussie, “I lived with my father.”

The waiter comes back with their entrees and Tom’s glad for it, taking in a deep, shaky breath as he pushes memories to the back of him mind, where they belong.

Utensils clink and wine is sipped to clear the palate before Tom cuts a section of his pan-fried sea bass, Chris making sure he takes some of the lemongrass foam on top of it. They decided to share tonight; the roasted hen with confit potatoes and the sea bass with stewed baby leeks. Chris loved food and Tom didn’t mind sharing, so he thought ‘why not’.

And it’s easily some of the best food Tom’s ever tasted. Granted, there isn’t a huge portion, but it’s just enough for him and definitely worth the price

Even Chris is making gentle sex noises over it.

He’s quiet for a while, enjoying his food and watching Chris, smiling to himself as he cuts meat and fish and hums with his pleasure. It’s so much better than the 24-hour Chinese place back home.

Halfway through their meal, he finally speaks, “Clover won’t say anything, so I might as well ask you: what was your sugar baby’s name?” Because there was no way Chris hadn’t ever _not_ spoiled someone in his lifetime. He’s too good at it.

Chris chuckles as he swipes a piece of hen through the sauce on the plate, “I’ve never had one.”

“So, I’m your first?” Tom asks, scooping up a little bit of potato on his silver fork.

Chris is trying to look unamused, “No, sweetheart. You’re just keeping me company on my trip.”

_Ah._

“And your bed warm, no?”

That makes Chris frown a little, but he nods, because he knows it’s true, “Yes, that also.”

“Well…thank you.” _That_ makes Chris look up from his food, “I don’t know why you would choose someone like me to accompany you here, but, really. Thank you, Chris.”

It’s sincere and Tom can feel it in his chest and for once it doesn’t make him sick.

Chris’ smile does, though. It’s big and toothy and his eyes are crinkled in the corners, just for a moment before his eyes go over Tom’s shoulder again and it fades slowly, his eyes narrowing a little until his jaw is set.

Tom swallows roughly, feeling a small surge of arousal pool in his belly at the look. It was dangerous, and so out of place right now.

Foolishly, he reached over and took Chris’ hand, drawing the man back to him. Chris’ face softened and Tom felt himself relax a little.

“What is it?” He whispers, just below the gentle noise of the restaurant.

Chris looks conflicted. Like he wants to tell, but can’t. He puffs out his cheeks a little and clenches his jaw one more time, never breaking eye contact, before he mutters, “There’s a man I know here. He’s dangerous, and doesn’t like me all that much. He’s been staring for a while. Don’t turn around, alright?”

A cool chill goes down Tom’s spine, the hairs on the nape of his neck standing on end when he begins to think that he can feel the stranger’s stare.

He lets go of Chris’ hand and continues to eat, asking a moment later, “What are we getting for dessert?”

Chris’ gaze doesn’t leave Tom again, instead he clears his throat and smiles, “You tell me, Mister-French-Speaker.”

“ _Je pense le Chuao._ ” He murmurs after he picks up the small menu again, biting his lip and smiling when he hears Chris hum his approval, shifting in his seat a little.

He tells the waiter their dessert order when he comes over to take their plates, and refills the wine glass for them quietly when he returns.

“What’s after this?” Tom asks, taking the glass from Chris once he’s taken a sip.

“I was thinking a show, then whatever you want to do.”

“I want to do you.”

Chris looks away with a chuckle while Tom imagines it.

\--

He’s too tired for a show. As they walk back up the Strip, Chris’ hand holding him firmly around the waist, Tom presses his cheek against the side of his drug lord’s chest and sighs. The dessert put him into a lethargic state, and not even the walk was waking him up. The air was too humid and Chris was too warm and solid and all Tom wanted to do was go back to the room with the A/C and get fucked to sleep.

When they return to the room, Chris enters first. He looks over everything, and when it’s safe, he pulls Tom in and presses him into the door with a kiss.

Tom hums as his eyes close, tilting his head while his fingers thread through that dark blond hair, grabbing a fistful and tugging gently. He loves messing up Chris’ nicely done hair, it’s like his own little bit of rebellion.

Chris kisses him for a while, touches him gently, getting him all hot. Tom whispers dirty things against Chris’ mouth and moans when he feels a strong hand hold the base of his throat, Chris’ leg between his thighs to rub against the crotch of his jeans.

He’s rock hard within moments, but still sleepy.

“Let me repay you for today,” Tom breathes against the Aussie’s lips, giving them a playful nip before pushing Chris away towards the bed, watching his client begin to strip as he walked backwards.

So, Tom mirrors him. First his shirt, then his pants while Chris is situating himself nicely on that plush bed, and Tom crawls onto it slowly. Chris watches him the whole time, laying back just as Tom straddles him.

“You look sleepy,” Chris mutters, his hands finding the curve of Tom’s waist as the Brit sits on his clothed dick.

“M’not tired,” Tom murmurs, grinding his hips down, closing his eyes with a breathy sigh as the heat of Chris seeps through their underwear.

And suddenly, Chris’ hands drift lower, until they’re resting on Tom’s hips and beginning to unroll the waistband of his borrowed briefs. Chris begins to laugh as Tom opens his eyes, looking down to see that his silly Aussie has pulled the waistband well over his bellybutton.

To make it worse, Tom begins to laugh. His sleepiness has become a slapstick silliness that he can’t shake, so much that he has to lean over Chris as they laugh together, pressing his forehead into the Aussie’s shoulder as he shakes with laughter.

They calm down slowly, Tom wiping his eyes and smiling with the odd giggle still escaping, even as Chris rolls them. He only stops when Chris pulls his underwear from his hips and kisses his thighs. Only then do they turn into breathy sighs, and those into soft moans, until he’s fisting the bed and Chris’ hair as the Aussie eats him out slowly. Long, slow licks and hard sucks until he’s wet and dripping for it, telling Chris so.

His daddy takes care of him, like he says he will. Tom easily falls into that little role of Chris’ boy, spreads his legs when he’s told to, opens his mouth, holds on tight when he can. Chris is gentle tonight, but infuriating with his pace, slow thrusts that make Tom want to crawl out of his skin. He comes before Chris, and allows himself to be put into a position in Chris’ arms that allows close touching and overheated skin.

They breathe together, in that dark room with only the lights of the fountain and city outside to light it. Tom turns away from the window to hide his face in Chris’ neck, closing his eyes with a deep breath of his cologne and fresh sweat.

The music from the fountains stop outside, and they lie there, quiet and breathing gently. Tom wonders if Chris has fallen asleep.

“So,” he mutters, clearing his throat when it’s thick with sleep, “Tell me about your…kink.”

Chris chuckles deep in his chest, and thumbs over the skin near Tom’s elbow, his voice just as soft, “I discovered it recently, actually.”

Tom hums, showing that he’s listening.

“I like to…take care of people. Protect them, in a way. Provide something for someone that only I can give them…”

Sex isn’t something that only he can give Tom, but the Brit says nothing. He just nods.

“Did you discover it through porn?” Tom murmurs.

Chris laughs, again. It’s lovely. “Yeah. Yeah, I did.”

Tom pulls away and turns onto his stomach, slowly, with his sore bottom and all. He drapes himself over Chris’ chest and refuses to acknowledge the memoires of Frederick. He licks his lips and looks down at his handsome man, that peaceful yet curious expression on his face. Tom reaches up and smoothes one of Chris’ eyebrows down with his thumb, “I think it’s cute…”

That eyebrow raises under his touch, “Really?”

“Yeah,” Tom shrugs, “You, a big bear of a man, caring for a little Bambi like me…”

Chris hums, pleased with that, and Tom smoothes the worried lines in Chris’ forehead this time, “Am I your first ‘baby’?”

“Yes. You were my trial, so to speak.”

Tom pauses, tilting his head with a bit of sass, “Oh?”

“ _Si._ Except, you turned into more than just a trial.”

_…interesting._

Tom licks his lips, “I can still be a trial, if you want. If you have fantasies or roleplays or anything you want to try, I’d be happy to help.”

Chris gives him a look, “Because you want to, or because I’d pay you to?”

He rolls his eyes this time, rolling off Chris now, “Mostly for the money, seeing as how that’s the whole reason I’m here in the first place.” He shuts the heavy curtains until there’s only a small bit of space in between, illuminating the room enough so that Tom doesn’t stub his toe on his way back to the bed, “I’m an escort, after all.”

“Why do you always do that?” Chris sounds annoyed, his tired tone a little sharper now, and Tom takes a seat on the edge of the bed, staring at the barely-visible Aussie lying amongst the sheets.

“Do what?”

“Call yourself a whore and always mention it.”

Tom, in his disbelief of Chris’ supposed naivety, laughs, “Well, what else would I do? I’m an escort, I _fuck_ people for money. I’m here on your dime, Chris. Every second you spend with me is only because you paid me to be here.”

And just like that, he’s ruined it. Chris doesn’t say a thing. He just stares, and now that Tom’s eyes have adjusted, he can just barely make out the disappointed and hurt look on the Aussie’s face.

A drug lord had his feelings hurt.

“You should think more of yourself than just your job, Thomas…”

Chris turns his back to Tom and settles down for sleep, leaving Tom stunned and at a loss for words. An Australian-Spanish _drug lord_ told him to think higher of himself, of something more than a whore.

Tom, for a moment, wonders if he’s right.

\--

It’s uncomfortable, going to bed angry with Chris. Or rather, having Chris angry at him.

But really, what did he expect? For Chris to love him unconditionally? To not see his flaws? They’re both marked with the ugly scars of their uglier pasts, it’s hard to see the person underneath it all.

Yet, Chris still looked at him with awe and kept a smile on his face, just for him. Tom barely had the decency to even look at him half the time.

Did Chris see himself as more than a drug lord? Obviously. If he had the balls to say that to Tom, then he’s got to believe it himself. It doesn’t take away the sting, though, because the worst thing about this is that Chris is _right_. Not once on this trip has he mentioned Tom’s job, unless Tom had mentioned it first. Tom was killing the mood with it.

But, it wasn’t like he could help it. He’s always seen himself as a whore, ever since he started working for Ashlie. He’s constantly told that he’s a whore, even if it’s not said outright. He can’t hide who he is so easily.

Why does Chris want him? Why is he here?

_It was much more fun thinking about what Chris did for his job, rather than wondering what he thinks of you._

Ain’t that the truth.

He settles down for sleep a moment later, a half hour gone since their little spat. He wonders if this will be the norm, both of them fighting with one another and going to bed mad. He hopes not, because he hates not having Chris’ body heat.

He tries to doze. He’s shaken from it when he feels Chris’ arm around his waist, protective and warm behind him, his breath gentle against the nape of his neck. Tom doesn’t know whether to move away out of spite or to give into it.

_I’ve got a war in my mind._

“Thomas,” a deep voice rumbles behind him, a hairy calf brushes against Tom’s smooth ones.

“’m sleeping,” Tom mumbles back, closing his eyes again.

“I can’t sleep knowing you’re mad at me…”

His patience snaps a little, and he bites, “Oh, and that’s my fault? Your guilt is eating you alive, Chris. I’m not mad anymore…”

They lie there, quiet, again. Chris’ warmth is lulling him to sleep easily and he soon has to fight to keep his eyes open.

Chris mutters against the back of his neck, “I’m not going to apologize. I mean what I said.”

All of the fight is sapped from him now, and all Tom can do is laugh under his breath, “Why do you even bother, Chris?”

“Because I like spending time with you. I like spoiling you. I like fucking you. I like _you_.”

He’s got to be hallucinating. Chris doesn’t like him. He’s half asleep already, he’s probably just hearing things.

“Why?” He whispers, his voice light and airy with sleep.

“I’ll tell you when I know. Sleep now, baby.”

Chris presses a final kiss to his cheekbone, and Tom’s out.


	9. Is This Happiness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _“Mon amour, je sais que tu m'aimes aussi  
>  Tu as besoin de moi  
> Tu as besoin de moi dans ta vie  
> Tu ne peux plus vivre sans moi  
> Et je mourrais sans toi  
> Je tuerais pour toi" ___  
> Carmen ~ Lana Del Rey

He dreams of mermaids, deep underwater, with a hypnotic voice muffled by the tide. There’s three of them swimming around him with their iridescent tails and Tom can breathe, in what seems like the first time in a long time. They kiss him again and again, breathe oxygen into his lungs, and when he looks down he sees his own legs have fused into a tail.

Then, he wakes up.

The dream puzzles him through most of the morning, which is spent mostly in bed with Chris, who’s still asleep. Tom lets him rest – settles on his side to watch the sleeping face of one of the most powerful men he’s ever met.

Frederick had been wealthy, sure, but not like this, not like Chris. Frederick had flaunted his cash carelessly, and Chris dressed well, but modestly. Chris liked to hold him, didn’t just drape his arm over Tom’s side and snore into his ear. No, Chris is all strong arms and broad chest, both enough to warm Tom’s lithe body. Chris likes to kiss him with lips that taste like a sweet cigarillo, not slap him silly. Chris didn’t hit him.

In fact, Chris is the only man in his life that’s treated him kindly. His father had yelled at him and hit him on a few occasions, but most of those scars are emotional. Frederick fucked him over, often slapping him so hard Tom heard the ringing of a bell. Chris, his sweet Chris, is almost like a saint. A gun-slinging, killing, drug trafficking saint, but a saint all the same.

In that early morning, Tom watches him through half-lidded eyes. His Aussie. His Daddy, sweet as sugar with looks to kill. A protector and provider that spoils Tom to his very rotten core.

His chest feels tight and Tom moves to slide between Chris’ arms and savours the warmth he feels there, tucked away in between muscles and a steady heartbeat.

It’s there that he can finally breathe.

\--

Chris looks like a scruffy puppy when he finally wakes just after ten, a wide smile on his face and crinkled eyes as he stretches his legs and scratches at his jaw as he rumbles, “Good morning, baby.”

Tom tries not to smile, but here in the privacy of their room, their masks put away and acts forgotten, he allows his lips to curve into a silly little smile.

“Good morning,” he whispers in return, reaching to brush Chris’ hair back from his forehead. Chris takes his hand and presses a kiss to the palm, and Tom feels heat rush to his face. Their eyes lock and Chris drags his cheek down to Tom’s wrist, tickling him until Tom worms his way out of the Aussie’s grip.

“Hungry?” Chris asks, rolling onto his back and reaching over to grab his phone from the bedside table.

“Starving,” Tom murmurs, pressing his lips to Chris’ bare shoulder, trying to peek at that screen.

Chris puts his phone down before he can, and turns to look at his baby. They stare at one another for a few moments longer, tracing their eyes over the slope of a nose and the straight lines on pink lips. Tom tries to count the pale blue flecks in Chris’ eyes, but he loses count every time. Chris does the same to his freckles. There’s nothing but white noise with the gentle rustling of sheets, just the two of them, and Tom’s heart aches for a reason unknown.

“Take me to Paris,” he finally whispers.

And Chris does just that.

\--

Perhaps this was all just a big, terrible mistake. It felt wrong. The kind of wrong that’s craved, like a smoker quitting cold turkey and regretting it hours later. An intoxicating rush of emotions that conflict with ignorant actions, in this case. Chris leans in for a kiss, and Tom will want to go on the tips of his toes to meet him, but instead he turns his cheek and plays it off as teasing.

He doesn’t know what is wrong with him. Last night’s words had kept replaying in his mind when he woke earlier than the sun, lying there with Chris crowding him under the covers, making him sweat and having a little trouble breathing. He’d been suffocating in him, the scent of Chris’ cologne and skin overwhelming him enough to a gentle gasp.

He’d loved it. The state of overwhelmed is intoxicating.

Breakfast is great. Buttery croissants and freshly-squeezed orange juice, with a beautiful view just to his left. His curls, still drying from his shower, were getting long and he mentions cutting them, but Chris tells him to do whatever he’d like. It’s Tom’s hair.

It was shocking to hear. His other clients would fight one another to keep Tom’s hair long or short. But Chris, darling Chris, couldn’t give a damn because it was _Tom’s_ choice. Freedom is a trap. You think you’re limitless, but the overwhelming feeling of choices keep you from everything. It goes down your throat like bile. Being homeless at sixteen taught him that.

Chris asks about his past, casually as he lifts his fork to his mouth, as if it’s not a loaded question.

“This isn’t a conversation to have over breakfast, Chris,” Tom laughs incredulously, eyes flicked down to his plate.

“Am I not allowed to ask…?”

Tom looks up then, reminded of where they are and what he is. “Most don’t,” he mutters, patting his lips with his cloth napkin, “It’s frowned upon.”

“Why?” Chris’ eyebrows furrow, making a line in between them that Tom wants to smooth down.

He shrugs, watching a waiter pass by their table, “It ruins the image.”

“What image?”

“God, am I your first escort?” Tom whispers with that same laugh from before, his own brows furrowed as he looks over at the Aussie.

“No.”

_Oh._

“And what happened with them?”

Chris hesitates, before he chuckles lightly, “This isn’t a conversation to have over breakfast, honey.”

_Honey. That’s new._

“Fine,” Tom shrugs, wanting a change of topic, “Tell me, then, what’s the plan for today?”

Chris has planned a lot of things. They range from a VIP invitation from a rooftop nightclub to sight-seeing the city. Gambling, for sure, and although Tom’s not the biggest fan of it, he’d happily watch Chris. He had a feeling the drug lord was lucky when it came to cards.

But, before any of that can happen, Tom wants underwear that fits him.

\--

Tom’s always been a thinker. He can’t help it. His thoughts are what keep him up at night when he can’t sleep, or when sleep is overwhelming and his eyes burn for it, but he can’t stop his mind from wandering in aimless circles. Even as he walks around shops with Chris, holding up a shirt to himself in a mirror and wondering how it’d look on him, and Chris isn’t any help because he’d tell him, “That’s beautiful,” to mostly everything he’s tried on or suggested.

It’s infuriating in an endearing way.

He admires the way Chris shops with care. The way he feels fabric between his fingers, and always checks the price last. He’s not afraid to splurge on something he likes, but he also knows when to hold back. Tom has more fun shopping with him than Clover; they laugh quietly together in a Diesel store, Tom giggly shushing Chris when the older man asks him _why_ a white t-shirt is three hundred dollars, and can’t seem to get over it as they continue to wander around the store together.

He wonders about that first escort he’d mentioned at breakfast, but knows that this isn’t the place to ask. He sits beside Chris and tries on leather dress shoes, getting up to walk in them, feeling those blue eyes on him as he goes. He flicks his gaze up on the way back, and flicks them back down with a smile when he catches Chris staring openly. His cheeks warm with embarrassment.

It’s strange being adored.

They talk the entire time they shop, rambling about anything and everything, and conversation flows so nicely between them that Tom has to wonder if they have the same brain. He finds out that Chris is from Melbourne, and knows three languages. He loves the outdoors, especially sports and the ocean.

Tom wants to see him surf the moment he mentions it.

“Maybe someday,” Chris smiles, brushing Tom’s wrist with his fingers as they walk.

But, as expected, Chris keeps his lips shut tight with personal things from his past, and the present. It’s infuriating and Tom feels that it’s the only barrier keeping them apart. He wants to rip it down with his bare hands and see the man he’s growing fond of.

“You mentioned a nightclub earlier,” Tom murmurs when they return to the room with bags of his spoiling, setting them down on the nicely made bed.

“Voodoo Nightclub,” Chris places his own bags in the closet, “It’s on the rooftop of the Rio hotel, or at least near it. Fifty-one floors.”

Tom’s stomach flips, “Dancefloor?” He asks, heading over to the window he’s fallen for.

“You can dance anywhere you want, sweetheart.”

He feels Chris behind him, feels fingertips on the side of his neck, and Tom tilts his head with a sigh when he feels warm lips on his skin. “Sounds like fun,” he whispers, closing his eyes when Chris kisses behind his ear.

“We can go, for a bit,” Chris mumbles behind him, and Tom swallows as he feels strong arms around him, keeping him safe and secure as he peeks down at the Strip.

“And then?” He whispers, placing his hands on Chris’ arms, gliding his fingertips over the blond hair dusting his forearms.

“And then…” Chris rests his chin on Tom’s shoulder, and the Brit hums, not sure if he’s glad the affection is over.

“We can go for a ride on that.” Chris mumbles, turning Tom a little to the left so they face what looks like the Eye, but definitely bigger. Tom had been wondering about that.

“What’s that?” He murmurs back, feeling Chris’ beard scrape against his jaw.

“The High Roller,” Chris chuckles softly, pulling Tom away from the window, “You’ll like it.”

He hums, skeptical, “Heights scare me…”

“Then hold onto me, baby.”

Tom pushes his elbow back into Chris’ stomach, and he smiles when he hears the Aussie’s infectious laughter.

“How do you say ‘I hate you’ in Spanish?” Tom asks, raising a brow as he turns in Chris’ arms and reaches to wrap his own around the drug lord’s neck, those couple of inches between their lips so torturous. Tom tilts his head back to look up at him, and for a second, thinks of Scarlett O’Hara and Rhett Butler.

Chris stares down at him with a calculated gaze, but his eyes are soft and the lines of worry aren’t evident in his tanned face, even as he mutters, “ _Te adoro siempre._ ”

Tom repeats it under his breath, blinking slowly, and stares up at the drug lord again.

“I feel like I should say something,” he murmurs after a bit, catching Chris staring at his thin, pink lips, “Like a secret…”

“Secrets are bad,” Chris murmurs in return, holding Tom close, “Just tell me what’s on your mind.”

“ _Gone With the Wind_.”

“Why?” The corners of Chris’ mouth turn up into a small, amused smirk.

“The way we are, right now,” Tom thumbs at the nape of Chris’ neck, feeling the soft downy skin there, “You hold me with your big arms and I let it happen. I turn my chin up for a kiss,” he does just that, “And you do nothing but stare.”

Chris’ chuckle rumbles in his chest, and Tom closes his eyes, waiting for the kiss that doesn’t come.

“You are beautiful, Thomas. Always remember that.”

Tom’s heard that a million times over. That he’s a precious little cherub, with rosy cheeks and big blue eyes. He’s an angel in disguise.

“I can’t seem to forget it,” Tom mumbles, opening his eyes just as Chris kisses him softly.

As he holds onto Chris tightly, he tells himself to stop thinking so much and to just enjoy what he has.

\--

He hadn’t been lying about being scared of heights. The nightclub is just as he expected it to be, with flashing lights and thumping music, but the view is something else. He can see all of Vegas, he’s sure of it, and the setting sun casts an orange glow to the city that steals the breath from his chest.

Chris’ hand is on his back, gently urging him towards the edge of the rooftop, and Tom’s hand grips at the drug lord’s shirt as he looks around from the better view.

“I can’t believe this,” he whispers, his words nearly swallowed up by the blowing wind that ruffles his curls, tossing them into something wild.

Chris laughs beside him, as always, and leads Tom over to the VIP section that’s full of women in dazzling dresses and wealthy looking men. Tom’s glad Chris had opted for something more street style. A suit would have looked terrible here.

“Who invited you?” Tom asks as they weed their way through the dancing girls, already tipsy from their sugar daddies’ money.

“I know the manager,” the Aussie replies, nodding to a man they pass, “I saw him the other day, before my meeting. He offered me a spot in the VIP event tonight.”

“Did you tell him that I like to dance?”

“No,” Chris smiles, “That was before I knew. He left my name with the bouncers, with a plus one, upon request.”

Tom can’t help but to roll his eyes, smiling to himself until a group of men sitting around near the corner of the floor wave Chris over and Tom is forced to follow.

And it’s strange, because these men treat Chris kindly. They’re older than him, graying around the temples with bulging bellies, but Chris is all smiles and good-natured jabs are given to each other as the Aussie and his boy take a seat at the big table.

He’s quiet through most of it, nodding at the men when he’s introduced, but other than that he’s content to look around the secluded VIP section, and then down to the regular club beneath them. He orders a gin and tonic for Chris, and a glass of Jameson for himself when a girl comes over to him. He watches Chris, eyes his easy smile and the watches the way his hands move when he talks. He accepts a cigarillo from the man closest to him, and the sweet smell of the smoke makes Tom want to kiss him.

As the sun sets, his glass turns into three, and then he’s pleasantly tipsy by Chris’ side, leaning into him a little but keeping his eyes on the dancing around them. The music’s picked up and the floor is nearly overflowing with people, enticing Tom to go and join them.

Chris leans into his ear as the group of men burst out into laughter, “Go dance, baby. I’ll be right here.”

Tom turns to him, a pout on his lips and eyebrows furrowed, “You’re not dancing with me?” He asks, feeling the flush on his face as Chris smiles at him gently.

“I don’t dance, sweetheart,” he murmurs, then nods towards the crowd they had walked through, “Go on.”

Angry and disappointed, Tom mutters, “ _Te adoro siempre,_ ” before he stands and makes his way over to the crowd, determined to dance with as many people as he could just to spite Chris.

\--

Around ten, Chris finds him again. His skin is warm and his vision is slow, and he stumbles a little when Chris turns him by the waist, interrupting his dance with a curvy little redhead.

“We’re going now,” Chris mutters, not looking very pleased, and Tom stares up at him as he leans against his strong chest.

“Why?” He pouts again, just for show, but follows Chris when the Aussie takes his hand and leads them through the crowd. He has to hold back a smirk as they leave the club, pushing his curls back as the air conditioning meets the sweat on his brow, and eyes Chris’ tense shoulders with barely restrained glee.

When he’s pushed up against the elevator wall on their ride down, Tom gasps and laughs in his throat, the sound swallowed by Chris’ angry, biting kisses.

“Daddy,” he whispers in surprise when they break apart, and Chris groans into his neck, grabbing Tom in his hands and squeezes his ass through the denim with rough touches. “Daddy, no,” Tom grins, eyes closed as he tips his head back, welcoming the possessive bites Chris lays on his neck, soaking up the rough attention because this is all he wanted.

He can’t recall how many people he’d danced with. Mostly girls, giggly things that tried to kiss him, but he’d turn his head and spot Chris through the crowd, chewing on his thumb with that line between his brows. Pleased, Tom would turn back to the girl in his arms and touch her waist, arms, hips. Sometimes he’d glance over at Chris and see that he was talking to someone, and it would piss him off, because Chris was supposed to be watching _him_ have fun.

He’s pleased to see Chris so jealous and possessive, even if it’s in private.

The elevators dings when they reach the lobby, and Chris drags them out, Tom’s neck pink from the short escapade.

The city lights dizzy him as they drive. He leans against Chris as he stares out of the window, wrapped around a muscled arm, smiling now and then as he reminds himself that this is real and it’s good and he’s _happy_.

Chris takes him to eat, at some place Tom can’t remember, to try sober him up a little. They sit in a secluded corner together and eat appetizers of dips and oysters and whatever else he wants, because Chris wants him happy. And he is, incredibly so.

He closes his eyes and smiles, his head tilted as Chris mumbles a joke into his ear. The soothing sound of a slow piano calms his nerves, tipping their shared glass of wine back against his lips while Chris’ hand finds his thigh. He shouldn’t be drinking, but he doesn’t care. He can’t deny the growing comfort Chris’ presence gives him, and instead of fighting it, he allows it to happen. He lets Chris pull him close, kiss him without permission, and leans back against the Aussie’s solid frame when the wine begins to make him relax.

Despite the food, his blinks are slow again by the time the forth shared glass is finished, and he hiccups when he leans in to Chris to whisper that he wants to go. Chris laughs at his hiccups, but agrees, and leaves behind a large tip as they part from the restaurant and return to the Mercedes.

He closes his eyes for a second, and when he opens them again, they’re parked outside the High Roller.

They get one just to themselves, thanks to a little bribery, and it’s easily the best view of Vegas he’s ever seen. They stand near the glass, and Tom holds onto Chris tightly, peeking down at the ground they’re slowly leaving. When they reach the top, he mumbles to Chris about the beauty of the lights and the moon, and how he never wants to leave this moment because he’s so incredibly happy but he’s also incredibly sad that time can’t stand still, not even for a moment –

Chris kisses him. He takes Tom’s jaw in his hand and turns his head up for a kiss. Tom’s head swims from it - or is it the alcohol - but he happily melts into Chris’ arms and allows himself a moment of vulnerability.

When they pull away from one another, Chris mumbles against his lips, “I only want to make you happy, Thomas.”

“Why?” He whispers back, eyes still closed as he tastes the Tanqueray on Chris’ breath.

“Because I know you aren’t. If nothing gives you pleasure or joy in life, I will.”

Tom opens his eyes, glassy from the alcohol, but he stares up and sees the city lights reflected in Chris’ eyes. Those eyes break his heart. “I…I can’t be happy. Ever.” He can’t let Chris make him happy. He can’t have this man being his only source of true happiness in his life.

Chris’ smile is sad, and Tom knows that look, he’s seen it in the mirror countless times. It cuts through him like nothing else.

“Eventually,” Chris murmurs, pressing a firm little kiss to Tom’s pliant lips, as if that one word will cure every ail he has.

And Tom thinks himself pathetic for believing him.

\--

Later, they go back to the casino at their hotel, and Tom slips away into the bathroom for a moment. He fixes himself up, wets a few curls and pats his face with a damp paper towel, trying to rid himself of that blush high on his cheeks.

His heart won’t stop racing.

He washes his hands and touches his lips, stares intently at himself in the mirror, trying to spot any minute differences. Chris’ kisses are changing him, surely. His lips are cherry, not rose. They’re soft and warm, and he can’t stop wanting more.

_He’s nothing to you._

Then why doesn’t it feel that way?

Chris couldn’t possibly be doing this all for him, for _his_ happiness. Chris isn’t completely selfless. He wouldn’t blow so much money on Tom if he didn’t expect something in return.

For a moment, Tom panics that his body isn’t enough. Chris can use him as he likes, but he doesn’t. He assures Tom’s pleasure before his own, every time. What else does he want? Tom has nothing else to give but false smiles and pretty lies.

When he returns, Chris is sitting at a slot machine, and motions for Tom to come over.

“Sit, sweetheart.”

Tom frowns, “Why?”

“Clover’s checking the poker room for us, it’ll be a minute. Sit.”

So, the Brit pushes the chair closest to him right next to Chris, and sits down. When the Aussie places his arm over the back of Tom’s seat, the Brit leans into him, watching the bright, flashing screen with glassy eyes.

“You’re so comfortable,” he mutters, pressing the side of his face into Chris’ chest, the soft fabric of his shirt cool to his cheekbone. He smells wonderful, too. He always does.

“Hmm?” Chris hums, pressing the ‘play’ button with his other extended arm.

Tom shakes his head and closes his eyes, content with the rings and dings from the machine and Chris’ even breathing beneath his ear.

\--

He can’t sit next to Chris in the poker room, which nearly makes him pout, so he and Clover sit across the room, watching quietly.

Well, almost quietly.

“What did you do today?” Tom asks softly, squirming in the seat he was given. He’d been told to sip on water, but he has yet to touch it. He liked defying Chris, it was a cheap little thrill.

Clover shrugs next to him, arms crossed over his chest and leaning back in his chair, relaxed and at ease, “I went shopping for my wife and child.”

Tom’s eyebrows go up and he whips his head over to look at him, “You’re married? With _kids_?”

He’s shushed by some random person, like a damn kid in the library, and pouts around the room before returning his gaze to the muscled man beside him whose brows are furrowed.

“Yes, I am,” Clover says, and after a moment of hesitation, reaches into his pocket and shows Tom a picture from his wallet. Tom takes it gingerly, noting how the edges are ripped and worn.

There’s a beautiful woman with dark olive skin and black hair, with a little boy that looks just like her, around three years old. They’re both smiling, with the child propped up on the mother’s hip, and Tom wonders how on earth Clover can be in this business and risk having such a happy little family.

“They’re beautiful,” he murmurs, handing the photo back, “You’re a lucky man, Clover.”

“I am,” Clover smiles to himself as he puts the photo back into his worn wallet, “But, it’s very dangerous. I can’t mention them to anyone in the business.”

This is probably the only time Clover has ever been able to show off his family.

“Then, why are you here?” Tom murmurs, his brows furrowed, “You should be with them.”

“They are the reason I am here,” Clover sighs, frowning now, “It is an ugly business, but it pays much better than anything back home. We had nothing at the start, but now we have a house, and my kid goes to school, they are happy and comfortable. It makes it all worth it.”

Tom stares at the back of Chris’ head, wondering if he had ever tried having what Clover does.

“Does Chris know? About your family?” Tom asks quietly, just above the sound of poker chips being clicked together.

Clover nods, once, “Chris is generous. He treats his men well, from me to the _Halcones_ , the guys on the street. He makes sure everyone is safe, and I keep them in line. I believe he is trying to make up for something he has done before all this.”

“Like a guilty conscious?” Tom’s brows furrow again, tilting his head towards Clover.

“ _Si_.”

“How can you tell?” Tom murmurs, glancing over at Chris.

“His eyes,” Clover frowns, looking at Chris’ tense shoulders, “Sometimes, they are sad. When he looks at you, he is happy, but when he is not, he is…” Clover shrugs, unable to find the words.

The conversation has sobered him up, so he orders another glass of wine. Clover has nothing.

He sips the dark liquid, immune to the dryness it leaves behind on his tongue. He’s drinking wine more often when he’s with Chris, for whatever reason. He’s starting to develop a taste for finer things, too.

But, if Clover’s told him about his family, does that mean…?

“Do you trust me?” Tom asks quietly, although the disbelief is clear in his voice. He stares at his bodyguard with wide eyes, who stares at him in return, as if evaluating his decision.

“Yes,” Clover mutters, finally, “I do not know if that is a mistake or not yet, but you seem…different. You read books and think too much. Under everything, you are a honest person. So, I trust you. I hope Chris does, too.”

\--

He has two more glasses of wine, chatting idly with Clover, and he knows he’s overdone it. He can’t remember how much he’s had to drink today, but he’s sure it’s about time to stop, because Chris won at poker and it’s time to go to sleep, apparently.

He blinks hard as he’s hoisted to his feet, and there’s a strong arm around him, guiding him towards the exit and then they’re back in the casino.

Clover walks with them to the elevator, and Chris is speaking to him in Spanish so Tom doesn’t know what they’re talking about. He likes listening, though. There’s something about hearing another language that’s hypnotic and lulling. He leans against Chris, closes his eyes, and open them again when Clover gets off just a floor beneath them.

“Goodnight, Clover!” Tom calls just before the doors close, and sways against Chris when the elevator goes up once more.

“You’re drunk, dearest,” Chris hums as he helps Tom into the hall, a hand on his hip to steady the Brit.

“Not drunk enough,” Tom mutters, placing his hand on Chris’ chest with a hum, and when they stop outside their room, he places his head on the drug lord’s chest, “I’m not drunk enough to forget…”

“Forget what?” Chris murmurs, unlocking their door and pushing it open, making sure Tom goes in first before following him in. He locks the door tight behind them.

“To forget everything,” Tom sighs, going over to the window, unbothered with how loose his tongue is at the moment, “The meaninglessness of it all, really…”

Chris’ hands are gentle on his shoulders, and he lets himself be drawn back towards the bed. He sits down when there’s pressure on his shoulders to, and watches Chris begin to take off his leather YSL boots for him.

“Chris…”

“Yes?”

“You said you had an escort before me…” He has to know.

Chris sets the boots aside, and doesn’t meet Tom’s eye as he stands. Tom watches him the entire time, blinking to clear the fuzziness in his vision. Chris’ hesitation makes him weary, despite his drunkenness.

“I did,” Chris started, rubbing his hands together as if nervous. He goes over to his suitcase, removing his own shoes and kicking them into the closet.

“And?” Tom drawls, slowly beginning to lay back on the bed because he didn’t remember the sheets feeling this nice that morning…

“She tried to kill me.”

_Chris does not like questions because it is suspicious. In this business, suspicious leads to threat, and threat leads to dead. Simple as that._

The silence that follows is the longest between them so far, Clover’s warning still ringing in his ears. It freezes Tom’s blood in his veins, stops his heart, and he stares up at the ceiling in his shock. His fingers feel numb.

“What did you do?” Tom whispers when the worst of his stunned silence passes, and he gathers up the nerve to talk again.

“What I had to.” Chris mutters, his voice void of emotion, and Tom feels a chill go up his spine.

He had to kill her, there was no other option. His safety was at stake. It was his life or her’s.

His fingers cramp from how hard he’s gripping the sheets, and now it makes sense to why they’re tingling.

Tom feels a burning in his eyes, and he doesn’t know why. Sympathy, maybe. One of his own, killed. But she betrayed her client, that initial trust was broken far beyond repair. She was the reason Chris didn’t like questions. She probably asked just as many as Tom wanted to, and perhaps Chris had answered every single one.

And look where that got her.

He lifts his head to see Chris toss his watch onto the TV stand, looking at the Brit with a soft sigh. He looks…lighter. How long had he been keeping that on his conscious? Was this what Clover had been talking about? Surely he knew about this.

“Chris, you did what you had to do,” Tom mutters, hating how the words sound, even to him.

“I always tell myself that,” Chris chuckles without humour, and Tom clenches his jaw, sitting up again, “She was beautiful, and funny, and witty. I saw her for…five months, often enough to feel like forever.” He smiles at memories, a sad look in his eye, “And one night, while we were sleeping, she tried. She told me she was working with another man, and it had been the plan from the start. Get close, build trust, and then take me out.”

_Trust only ends badly._

Tom’s stomach had once been cramping from the alcohol, but now, it churns with sickness.

He can’t get close to Chris, and he can’t distance himself, either. It’s a frustrating dance of one step forward and one step back, staying in one place with the Aussie. No trust, no deceit. Just…nothing. Nothing but carnal pleasures.

It all makes sense, but it still frustrates him.

“Then why me?” Tom whispers suddenly, his voice is not shaking, it’s definitely not. What makes him different from her? Why does Chris let himself be so vulnerable?

Chris gives him a small smile, “I don’t know, Thomas. I still haven’t really figured that out yet.”

Tom looks away then, swallowing thickly as he gets up from the bed and returns to the window on wobbly legs. He stares out of it, still swaying a little, processing everything. This is the first time Chris has really opened up to him, and it’s ugly. It’s the worst thing Tom could learn about him. What if this isn’t? What if there’s something worse? Chris is the type of client you have to avoid. He’s dangerous, powerful, handsome, and knows how to draw you in.

He’s the biggest threat to Tom’s safety, yet Tom’s never felt safer.

“Thomas…?”

“I don’t get it,” Tom huffs, wrapping his arms around himself, his face crinkled with suppressed emotions, “You…want to make me happy, but you’ve been hurt before, yet it doesn’t stop you…”

He won’t let himself cry. Today had been such a great day. He was _happy_ , if but for a moment. Everything in his life was fleeting.

When Chris pulls him into his chest, Tom goes without protest, because he knows he can blame the alcohol and he uses that excuse to hide away in Chris without shame.

“You’re not okay, are you?” Chris murmurs into his hair.

“ _No,_ ” Tom laughs lightly, exasperated at it all, “I’m…I’m a mess, Chris. I have too many demons. I can’t get close to you because I’m scared, but I want you to trust me…”

He finally places his hands on Chris’ chest, and he grabs his shirt in his fists, clinging to him, feeling his eyes well with tears, “Chris, you don’t have to worry about anything with me. I can’t hurt anybody. I’ve been hurt too many times to know that I never want to do that to someone else. Please, believe me.”

_Shut up._

There’s that voice he’s missed.

He continues, unable to help himself, “My dad…he used to hit me. And yell. I’m sure he hates me. He didn’t even look for me when I ran away--” A hiccup interrupts him, and he closes his eyes tight, not letting those tears fall because he know they won’t stop if they start, “And Frederick…fucking—he was my sugar daddy, Chris. I’ll be honest. I spent two years of my life with him and he hit me and bought me things to make me happy, but I was still _empty_. I’ve confused abuse with love so many times, but it’s all I know…and then you come along and hold me and kiss me and never raise your voice. You want to make me happy. You’re the only person I’ve ever known that’s ever wanted that for me…”

The tips of his ears burn in his embarrassment. He’s ashamed beyond belief. He’s drunk and near tears and he’s spilling out everything that’s wrong with him to Chris. It’s one big word vomit and he can’t stop it.

He buries his face in Chris’ chest, hiccups again, and feels a comforting touch on his back. He feels lips at his temple, soft and assuring, and then a deep voice vibrates through that muscled chest, “Are you mad at me, Thomas?”

He doesn’t open his eyes, only mutters, “Furious.” Because he is. Chris is gentle and kind when Tom’s used to rough and mean.

“You can shower me in affection all you like, Chris,” he mutters, opening his eyes again, although they’re still misty with tears, “I will never be used to it. I won’t accept it. You can’t fix me.”

And Chris laughs. He laughs, gently, and it’s not condescending or anything. It confuses Tom, but he listens anyway, “Nobody can fix you, Tom,” he mutters, still rubbing his boy’s back, “Only you can. Trust me, I know…”

“How do you know?” Tom whispers, lifting his head to finally look up at Chris, and he’s not sure if it’s just a trick of the light or if it’s his blurry vision, but he can see moisture in those electric eyes.

Chris says nothing, at first. He just smiles sadly, and lifts his hand to gently pinch Tom’s chin, in that way Tom knows all too well, and mutters, “I’ll tell you another time, sweetheart. I promise.”

Tom makes a face at the word, but lets it go, because he’s embarrassed himself enough tonight.

And then, his world spins, and he grips onto Chris tightly. He closes his eyes and follows him to the bed, allowing Chris to undress him slowly, and then falls back to crawl under the covers. His stomach churns once he’s settled, and Chris places a trash bin just beside Tom on the ground, just in case. He sits on the edge of the bed and pushes Tom’s curls from his face, staring down at him with those worried blue eyes.

“You want to make me happy?” Tom mumbles, already half asleep.

“You know I do,” Chris mumbles back, brushing the pad of his thumb over Tom’s cheekbone.

“Lay down and hold me until I sleep.”

Chris smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He climbs into bed behind Tom and like every night, presses them together. Tom had always hated cuddling, especially after he became an escort, but there’s something about Chris that makes him crave it. He can fuck people for a living, but when it comes to Chris, he just wants to touch. It doesn’t have to be sexual. It can be chaste. Innocent, even, but he still craves the Aussie’s skin beneath his fingertips or against his own.

He falls asleep thinking that maybe he’ll be okay, eventually.


	10. Can't Pin Me Down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _"Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.”  
>  Wuthering Heights,_ Emily Brontë

Chris wakes him up, abruptly, in a soft voice. “Sweetheart, wake up.”

_Oh, god, what time is it?_

He peeks an eye open just long enough to glance at the sky, which is still black and the lights of the city are still shining. “Chris, it’s still dark out…” He groans softly, curling into a ball beneath the covers.

“You’re moving rooms, just for the night.”

_“Why?”_ He whines, pouting as he forces himself to sit up, glaring sleepily at the Aussie.

“Clover called, said there’s something suspicious in the lobby.”

Tom’s brows furrow, seeing the state of Chris through fuzzy vision, “Have you slept…?”

Chris doesn’t answer him, instead he gets up and goes over to the desk across the room, “Clover booked another room for you,” Chris says, walking back to hand him a small envelope that holds a plastic key card and the room number, “A precaution. It’s just for the night.”

Tom stares at the little white envelope for a moment, his brows slowly coming together as he wraps his head around the meaning of it. He glances up at Chris, his brows still furrowed, “You’re…making me sleep somewhere else?”

“Yes.”

He makes a face and all but shoves the key card back into Chris’ chest, “Not happening.”

“What do you mean ‘not happening’?” Chris asks, his voice developing an edge to it.

“I mean I’m not sleeping somewhere else tonight,” Tom stares up at him, unintimidated, “I’m staying right here, with you.”

Chris’ jaw sets, “Don’t be difficult, Thomas.”

“Oh, I’m being difficult?” Tom laughs, sleep gone from his mind, “You’re forcing me into another room while you’re staying here, putting yourself into more danger than what’s necessary.”

“I care more about your protection than my own. If anyone was to try kill me tonight, at least you’ll be safe.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Tom makes a face as he lays down and turns to face away from the drug lord, hating how he’s all but melting from Chris’ words.

Chris turns him around, forcing them to look at one another. Despite his feelings, Tom curls into himself and frowns up at the older man, who’s taken a seat on the edge of the bed. It’s like hours before, when they’d stared at one another, completely vulnerable.

“Thomas, please. Do this for me.”

He hates the way Chris looks at him like that, hopeful and honest and pleading.

He can’t go. He can’t leave Chris here in harm’s way. He knows that’s exactly what Chris is thinking for him, but why would he stay here when there was a possible threat?

Despite his stubbornness, he grabs the envelope, “Fine.”

Chris doesn’t look as satisfied as Tom had expected. Instead, he straightens and mutters, “Thank you.”

“But,” Tom holds up a finger, pausing for a second, “You have to come with me.”

“Tom…” Chris sighs, ready to argue.

“It’s suicidal for you to be here alone, Chris. You know that.” He shifts to sit up again, moving so that he’s across from the man trying to push him away, “I’m safer with you. You don’t have to worry about someone if you’re sleeping next to him.”

Chris gives in far easier than Tom expected, but he’s happy, nonetheless.

They mirror a little smile to one another, and Chris reaches to pinch Tom’s chin gently, muttering a soft, “Okay.”

\--

They leave their shopping bags and only take their luggage, wheeling it to the elevator and going down two floors. This room isn’t as nice as the one they’ve been staying in, and the bed is smaller, but Tom can’t bring himself to care as long as he has a place to sleep and Chris is by his side.

He collapses onto the bed with a groan and begins to shed his clothing, catching the time on the alarm clock by the bed.

“There’s no way I slept only two hours,” Tom mutters as he slides under the blankets, settling down and watching Chris lock up the door. He even goes to shut the heavy curtain at the window, leaving them in darkness.

“Chris…”

“I’m right here, baby.”

He hears clothing hit the floor and then there’s weight on the other side of the bed, and Tom moves to the warmth of Chris’ body, settling into his favourite spot against that strong chest.

It’s different in here. It’s dark and secluded and _safe_.

Tom feels like spilling a secret again, but knows better than to. He still feels the alcohol in his system and it’s best to sleep it off.

“Please sleep,” he murmurs, nuzzling his face into Chris’ collarbone.

He falls asleep hearing a faint ‘hm’, and knows that Chris won’t.

**

“Thomas…”

He’s never going to sleep properly again, never in his life. Chris wakes him _early_ , when the sun is just rising, and his eyes burn when he tries to open them. His head feels fat. So, he rolls over, until he bumps against the Aussie and hides in his chest, tucked away from the sunlight and nuzzling into the soft hair on Chris’ chest.

“ _Es la hora del desayuno.”_

He half moans in his sleep, and whines gently at the thought of Chris trying to rouse him for sex when he has a minor hangover, “Don’t…talk dirty before breakfast, Chris…”

The obnoxious laughter makes him open his eyes to glare up at the blond, but it’s ruined by the sleepiness that’s still there.

“I said it’s time for breakfast.” Chris hums, staring down at him with that same kind smile he always has, even after last night’s big confessions and rude awakening.

Chris shines brighter than the sunlight, so Tom rolls away with a pout, settling onto his stomach and cradling the pillow under him, muttering that it sounded sexy to him. He tries not to think of Chris’ smile and the meaning behind it.

“Tell me what you want to eat.”

Chris can’t still see him the same way. It’s impossible.

But, Tom doesn’t want to eat. He wants to sleep. He wants Chris to shut up and cuddle him back into that dreamless slumber, where he’s safe from everything. Where nothing can hurt him. There’s only warmth and even breathing.

But, he knows Chris won’t go back to sleep once he’s awake. There’s no point in fighting the inevitable.

“Grapefruit,” he mumbles into the pillow, resigning with a soft sigh when Chris leaves the bed to murmur his order into the phone.

\--

When there’s a knock at the door and Chris goes to answer, Tom decides that it’s probably time to get up. He pushes the puffy duvet away and swings his legs over the edge, standing on wobbly legs as he rounds the large bed, scooping up a discarded white button-up from the ground as gracefully as he can. He makes his way over to the table that Chris has set up for them to eat at, pushing his curls back as he settles down onto his chair. It takes him a few tries to find a comfortable position for his legs, flashing his underwear as he shifts his thighs before his legs are comfortable at a slant and he leans into them, staring down at the table in front of him.

Chris lifts the silver covers and reveals the platter of fruit, bacon and eggs, and orange juice in champagne glasses, but Tom only has eyes for his beloved grapefruit halves and reaches for one. When he sits back, he glances up at Chris, and does a double take when he realizes the Aussie is staring.

“What?” He murmurs, grabbing the serrated spoon from a silk napkin.

“You’re beautiful.”

Tom frowns, knowing that his hair is crazy and he must have dark circles under his eyes, but he doesn’t have the heart to deny it when Chris looks so thoughtful and sounds so sincere. Again, he ignores the way his chest tightens as he remembers last night. Instead, he begins to cut into his breakfast, oblivious to the fact that Chris is moving around in his seat. When he gets the first slice of grapefruit onto the spoon, he hears the shudder sound of a camera, and flicks his eyes up just in time for Chris to catch him again.

He clenches his jaw and mutters a tense, “Chris…” Because this isn’t the time for pictures, he’s just gotten up and he’s trying to eat…

Chris catches a picture while he’s pouting, and despite the work he’s put into getting the first cube of grapefruit out, he balances it on his spoon and flicks it across the table. It lands with a satisfying little ‘smack’ on the front of Chris’ shirt, and Tom smirks gleefully upon hearing his client’s clearly annoyed, “ _Thomas_.”

He tips his grapefruit up to his lips and sucks the juices that pour into his mouth, curling his toes as he fights off the urge to laugh. Chris is too cute.

“Put your shirt back on, you’re putting me off my breakfast.”

\--

After his drug lord showers, he lays with him. Chris’ hair is damp and drops of water still cling to his skin, but Tom goes to him anyway, pressing his fingertips into the muscle of Chris’ chest to feel the beating of his heart underneath. He fills his daily craving of touch; runs his fingers through the damp hair, accepts gentle kisses as he smoothes the lines at the corner of Chris’ eyes, thumbs over Chris’ shorn jawline. He lets Chris mark his collarbone with a lovely little bitten bruise, lavished with soothing kisses and slow swipes of a tongue afterwards. He cradles Chris’ head against his chest, curling into him as he cages the Aussie in, accepting the heavy petting with quiet euphoria. It makes his lids heavy and he closes his eyes as arousal stirs in his groin, biting his lip when Chris grabs beneath his knee and hooks his long leg over his hip.

He tastes like orange juice – bittersweet – when he finally licks into Tom’s mouth. Tom welcomes him between his thighs, wrapping his arms around Chris and holding him tight, digging his fingers into that muscled back. He hasn’t made out for this long before, tied up in Chris with every slide of his tongue or suck to his lip, until his breath is short and he feels dizzy. Chris pets him, slides his hand under the dress shirt and feeling freckled skin beneath his fingertips.

When he needs to catch his breath properly, Tom pushes him away with a hand to his shoulder, laughing breathlessly as Chris tries to continue. “ _Enough_ ,” he whispers with a laugh, laying back as Chris half-hovers over him, looking rather pleased with himself.

He sucks in a sharp breath when Chris presses his hand to the front of his new briefs, smirking as he feels the outline of Tom’s semi.

“Stop it,” he pushes Chris’ hand away, pouting as he’s given a final little kiss. It’s safe to say he’s had his fill of touching Chris for today.

“What do you want to do, sweetheart?” Chris asks softly, settling onto his side to watch the Brit.

He thinks for a moment, wondering what to do. He’s done shopping, and he’s not hungry…

“Take me to the pool.”

\--

Despite his fair complexion, Tom tans. He slathers sunblock on before relaxing against the plastic recliners, closing his eyes as the sun warms his skin and slowly paints him a light bronze. He sweats, wiping his upper lip now and then, and peeks his eyes open to look around the busy poolside. It’s noisy, filled with chatter and splashes, but it’s still nice.

Chris is swimming, or rather, wading. Their eyes meet every time Tom glances over at him, and Chris gives him a smile, to which Tom quirks a brow and returns to his tanning. He sips on iced water and pops frozen grapes between his lips when Chris comes back with them, dripping wet but looking ridiculously good as he pushes his hair back from his face.

“Not as good as surfing?” Tom hums, squinting as he watches Chris settle next to him on another plastic recliner, sighing and flicking the chlorine drops from his fingers.

“Not even close,” Chris chuckles, tossing a grape into his mouth while Tom decides to lower his recliner and tan his back.

“I should’ve bought you a pair of speedos instead,” Chris hums, and Tom gives him a look before turning his face the other way, ignoring the chuckles he hears.

He manages to block out the sounds of the lively pool and focus on his breathing. He loves the sun. London didn’t have much of it, which explained his pale complexion, but America was always sunny and hot, especially in Malibu, and Tom loved it. It had been such a shock to his system the first time he’d had a visit, but he was used to the stickiness of sweat on his skin now.

When his skin gets too hot again, he turns onto his back to find that Chris is watching him from behind his sunglasses.

“Stop staring,” he mutters, placing his hands over his stomach.

“Why?”

“Because it’s annoying.”

Chris smiles, because it seems to be their favourite thing to do to one another; annoy. Chris had the tendency to come out of nowhere and kiss whatever inch of skin he could, and Tom’s annoyance would flare at it, often leading to an elbow in the side or pushing the Aussie away.

In return, Tom liked to use his words. Where Chris was physical, Tom was all teasing words or pouting lips. He knows Chris likes it when he pouts, because he’s so good at it, but too much can easily annoy him. Especially when he acts like a brat.

“Do you want that umbrella yet?”

Still, Chris is unbearably sweet to him.

Tom peeks over to the umbrella a few seats away. An older couple had been hiding beneath it earlier, but Tom hadn’t seen them leave. Chris must have.

“Sure,” he mutters, reaching for his iced water again.

“You know,” Chris says when he comes back with the umbrella, “For how pale you are, you certainly colour.” He sticks the pole into the slot between their recliners, and angles it so that they’re both somewhat covered from the blazing heat.

“I’m sure it’s a gene mutation of some sort,” Tom smirks, curling his legs into the shade, “I’m Scottish _and_ a Brit, they don’t colour, they burn.” It was a miracle, nonetheless. It helped him fit in.

“Think you could survive an Aussie desert? Or a Columbian jungle?”

“Why? Do you live in both?” Tom smirks again, glancing over at Chris.

“No,” Chris chuckles, “It would just be nice to know your level of comfort in the heat.”

Tom’s next ‘why’ has a bit of suspicion creeping into it.

Chris gives him a look, “Did you really think this would be our only trip together?”

That thrills Tom in a dangerous way.

\--

Just before two, they return to the room to get ready for an early dinner, or late lunch. He knows Chris has something to tell him by the way he stands and speaks; hesitant but thoughtful, like he was waiting for the proper time to say it. Tom showers and dresses, taking his time while Chris showers after him. He checks out the new colour on his skin, making a face at the way his hair is drying. He’ll definitely need a trim soon.

He texts his clients back home while he waits for Chris to get dressed, telling Daphne that he’ll see her the day after he returns, and that yes, he’ll go with Richard to lunch. The thought of returning to them pales in comparison to what he has now, though. He hates himself for wishing it would be like this all the time.

“My deal is this evening,” Chris murmurs suddenly, when Tom is trying to tame his curls in the mirror on the wall, “So, we can spend the afternoon together, but I’ll be back late.”

_A deal?_

Tom stares at him in the reflection, eyes wide with unasked questions. All but one.

“Can I come along?”

They haven’t spoken about Chris’ business here, at all. Chris won’t tell him anything. In fact, this is the first time he’s ever said anything about it, and Tom needs to know more. It could get him killed, either by Chris or his buyer, but Tom doesn’t care. His curiosity is his fatal flaw and he knows it. Perhaps Chris would realize it, too.

But Chris is quiet, for a moment. His brows furrow as he carefully rolls up the sleeves of his fitted dress shirt, concentrating so hard that Tom thinks that maybe he hadn’t heard.

“It isn’t a place for sweet little boys.” Chris mutters, his voice filled with something akin to sorrow and regret.

“Is that so?” Tom scrunches his face and tilts his head a little as he turns to him, disgusted at the words. He wasn’t sweet. He wasn’t a boy.

Chris’ boy, maybe.

“Yes, it is so. You’re safer here.” Chris finally looks up, his blue eyes set as he stares at the boy across the room.

Tom isn’t swayed. “And what if I feel safer with you? What if someone comes and takes me away while you’re gone? What then, Chris?” His patience is snapped, “You leave me _all_ fucking day in a city I barely know, with a man I’m forced to trust, and for what?!--”

The Aussie’s jaw sets, “You know damn well why, Thomas.”

Tom nearly sputters with his incredibility, staring at Chris with wide eyes, “I don’t know why the hell you care about some expensive hooker so much, Chris--”

Chris snarls, “You are not--” But stops himself, his jaw clenching shut as they glare at one another.

He’s hiding something from Tom. There’s something he’s hiding and he doesn’t know why or what it is, but Tom knows what he wants from him and he’s going to get it.

“Whatever.” Tom spits, his anger flared, and he turns back to the mirror to give Chris the cold shoulder.

“Don’t do that,” Chris mutters, his own anger evident, but Tom continues to stare into his own reflection, feeling his face flush.

“Don’t fucking do that to me, Thomas.”

“Why not?” He glares over at Chris, his top lip curling, “Why am I not allowed to be angry? Am I supposed to be this happy little angel that you take care of all the time? Oh, wait – yes, I am,” His glare drops and he stares at Chris with a bored look, “Sorry to break it to you, _darling_ , but I’m not happy right now, and I’m going to fucking show it if I want to.”

And for a second, Tom wonders if he’s taken it too far. Their matched anger have short fuses, so it doesn’t take much to set one another off, but Chris looks like he’s been put in his place and Tom’s oddly proud of himself. He’s put a drug lord in his place. It wasn’t a feat many could admit to.

He hates being in this room, because there is nowhere to go without looking like he’s trying to hide or run away. Where he would give them space to cool down, in this room, he can’t. Chris goes to the window with a hard look on his face, and Tom watches him as he pretends to primp again. The tension is obvious, both incredibly stubborn, but Tom isn’t going to give anytime soon. If Chris wants him here, he has to be honest with what he does.

“Fine.”

Chris turns, and Tom doesn’t look away. Their eyes meet in the mirror, so his eyebrow quirks in a silent ‘what?’ despite the satisfaction curling in his gut.

Chris’ jaw isn’t clenched anymore, he just looks defeated, “Ashlie will be furious if he finds out.”

“I don’t care,” Tom hums, turning his head to look over his shoulder at the Aussie, and sizes him up before finally turning completely and going over to him, slowly.

Despite the vicious anger that had just torn through them, Chris welcomes the brat into his arms as Tom leans into his chest, staring up at him. He’d thank Chris, but he was sure this wasn’t something he should be thanking a drug lord for. It would be, without a single doubt, the most dangerous thing he’d ever done. But Tom was ready. Chris would keep him safe.

They stare at one another, until Tom asks in a soft voice, “Will Clover be there?”

“All of my men will be,” Chris mutters, pressing his hand to Tom’s lower back, the touch so familiar now, “You’ll be safe. I’ll get Clover to get you a vest, just in case.”

_A bulletproof vest._

Tom hums, wanting to rest his head against the crisp shirt and the firm muscle beneath it, but he continues to stare up at Chris. The lines in his face are evident, and for a moment, Tom hates himself for being the person that put them there.

“Why do you want to come along?” Chris asks, his voice barely above a whisper, “It is so dangerous, you shouldn’t trust me so much…”

“I have chronic curiosity,” Tom murmurs, unsure of how to answer this one, “Especially for you.”

The look on the drug lord’s face tells him to continue.

“You take care of me, buy me whatever I want, and you show me that it’s not all just for sex…” He presses his hand over Chris’ chest, “I’ve known you for only a few days, but within those hours of those days, you’re stirred up a rather…furious curiosity. And it’s been killing me, Chris. I can’t ask anything about what you do or why, because I know you won’t tell me, so I want to _see_ it instead. It’s the only way to keep you from pointing a gun to my head.”

The lines of worry are back, deeper this time, but Tom doesn’t want to smooth them away. No, he lets them stay there. He makes Chris worry and it’s nice to be worried about, even if the reasons are unknown.

“I would never…” Chris whispers, squeezing Tom tightly, “I’ll never forgive myself if anything happens to you, Thomas,” he continues, reaching up to brush the pad of his thumb over his boy’s cheekbone, and then a small smile pulls at his lips, “I can’t say ‘no’ to you, can I?”

“No, you can’t,” Tom smirks, leaning into the touch, “You’re wrapped around my finger, Chris.”

They laugh together, softly, with matching grins that are only meant for each other.

\--

“Did you _have_ to sit next to me?” He asks with an amused smirk, glancing over at the Aussie all but pressed next to him on the same side of the booth. They’re dining on caviar, the freshest and most expensive the restaurant has to offer.

“Of course,” Chris’ brows furrow with a smile, looking as if he was just asked the most ridiculous question, “Where else would I sit?”

“On the other side, like a normal person.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, sweetheart,” Chris smiles, taking the small wooden spoon from Tom’s hand.

“ _You’re_ ridiculous,” Tom says as he takes a sip of their shared rosé wine, “By the way,” he licks his lip as he sets the glass down, “Why do we share wine?”

Chris’ eyebrow goes up, “You want your own glass?”

“No, no,” Tom’s hand goes to Chris’ on his thigh, purely on instinct, “I’m just curious.” He was growing fond of the idea of sharing wine.

And for some reason, his drug lord looks embarrassed. Tom can’t help but to fight back a smirk at the sight of pink on Chris’ cheeks.

Chris shrugs, “I like to think it’s romantic.”

“It is. _You’re_ a romantic.”

Their eyes finally meet and Chris smiles, looking rather guilty, “I’m hopeless, really. I love going on dates, spoiling someone with gifts, buying flowers for no other reason but to make someone happy, sharing food and drink…”

Oh, he’s a real romantic, his old man. “You’re disgustingly endearing,” Tom murmurs, his brows drawn together with his frustration, but there’s a softness to his face that Chris smiles at.

He kisses Tom quickly and softly, and pulls away far too soon.

“Do that again,” Tom’s voice is barely above a whisper, his eyes half lidded.

Chris wants to, it’s obvious in his eyes, but he doesn’t, “I can’t, baby.”

He’s _this_ close to pouting, “Why not?”

“Too risky,” Chris’ hand squeezes his thigh under the table, “You can be targeted if we’re seen together too often, kissing or not. I’m already worried about that man from the restaurant.”

“Does he hate you or something?” Tom asks, his brows furrowed again.

“Not necessarily,” Chris leans back in his seat, “I know who he works for, and _that_ man hates me. I have a lot of enemies.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Tom mutters, leaning back with Chris, still staring at him, “Have you always had enemies…?”

“No,” Chris shakes his head, glances around the restaurant before turning to Tom again, “When I began to make my way up, I did. Everyone wants what I have. Success, power, blow.”

He takes his hand from Tom’s thigh, and Tom wishes he hadn’t.

“Is that all you do?” Tom murmurs, giving Chris his space.

“Now, yes.” Chris quirks a smile before reaching up to pinch Tom’s chin, “Stop with the questions, sweetheart. Please.”

He doesn’t want to. He hasn’t even begun to ask any real questions. Nevertheless, he shifts to grab the wooden spoon again, scooping up caviar as he says, “Only because you asked nicely.”

Chris’ smile is distant, his eyes on the black fish roe in front of them, like he’s sad that he had to stop Tom. Maybe someday he’d let his boy talk.

\--

They walk back to the hotel once they’re done, stomachs full and mood light, Chris’ arm around his waist as the Brit smokes a cigarette. He’s curled against Chris’ side, ignoring the stares they receive from those passing by.

“When did you start?” Chris asks.

“On and off from sixteen,” Tom sighs, flicking the ash from the tip.

“Why?”

Tom shrugs, “My friends were doing it, my father did, my stepmom…it just seemed natural for me to start, too.”

Chris hums, and Tom takes a long drag to burn his lungs.

“I smoked a lot when I was moved here. I’d go through almost a pack a day.”

“Sounds like you couldn’t make it up a flight of stairs,” Chris tries to joke, and Tom just pinches his side.

“Well, I certainly would cough up half of my internal organs whenever the elevator was out of service.”

That makes Chris laugh, and it makes Tom smile.

He snubs it out on the small sand disposal above a trash can, just before they enter the Bellagio.

“Are you going to play for a bit?” Tom asks, glancing up at the Aussie.

Chris makes a face and shakes his head, “No, we’re leaving soon.”

Ah. “Should we go back to the room, then?”

“Yes, but, I have to do something first. I’ll meet you up there.”

Tom wants to ask, but he knows better to, so he nods and leaves to the room first. The moment the doors close, leaving him alone with the soft music playing in the tiny space, he feels his stomach begin to knot. The gravity of the situation settles on his shoulders, and he knows this is not the right thing to do, that he should just stay here in the room where he’ll be safe, but he also knows that he can’t. He’s in this too deep already; Chris has become something more than a client, faster than either of them had anticipated.

He’s putting his very limited trust into Chris and Clover and his men, and he expects to live through the night because of it.


	11. Are You Satisfied?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _"When you fall in love, it is a temporary madness. It erupts like an earthquake, and then it subsides. And when it subsides, you have to make a decision. You have to work out whether your roots are to become so entwined together that it is inconceivable that you should ever part. Because this is what love is. Love is not breathlessness, it is not excitement, it is not the desire to mate every second of the day. It is not lying awake at night imagining that he is kissing every part of your body. No ... don't blush. I am telling you some truths. For that is just being in love; which any of us can convince ourselves we are. Love itself is what is left over, when being in love has burned away. Doesn't sound very exciting, does it? But it is!"  
>  Captain Corelli's Mandolin,_ Louis de Bernières

He throws up black half-digested caviar into the sink, the knots in his stomach are so tight. There’s gentle gasps heard through ringing ears and cold water to wash away the flush on his cheeks. When he finally lifts his head, he stares at his face in the mirror.

_What are you doing?_

He is going to see how Chris works, because he can only see the Aussie in action and he can’t ask anything or Chris won’t trust him.

_Why?_

He doesn’t want to say. He knows why, but he can’t admit it. He can’t acknowledge the rapidness of his heart, not now. Not ever.

_You can’t ever be happy, remember?_

He makes a face at himself and reaches for his toothbrush, trying to keep unwanted images out of his head as he brushes the buttery bile from his tongue and teeth. He’s getting what he wanted, he shouldn’t be throwing up in the sink.

The door opens when Tom’s finished cleaning the bathroom, sniffling as he sees Chris. He’s changed; his eyes are steely blue and he doesn’t smile. He has a grey plastic bag in one hand, and his face is stony, although it does soften when their eyes meet.

“Here,” Chris pulls out a black bulletproof vest from the bag, and Tom feels a little dizzy, “Take off your shirt and put it on.”

Tom does just that, although he asks, “Only me?”

“Only you,” Chris mutters, going over to help Tom tighten it around his waist, “I don’t need one, it only puts me in more danger.”

The vest’s tight and a little stiff, but he supposes it’s comfier than a bullet in his stomach.

“How so?” He can’t stop himself from asking. It just seemed rather stupid to not wear one.

Chris pulls at and sticks his fingers under the vest in various places, wanting to make sure it’s secure, “A meeting like this is tricky,” he mutters, adjusting a Velcro strap, “We agreed on having no weapons whatsoever, to ensure our trust in one another and to keep everyone cool.”

“Why?” Tom feels like a child, “You’re armed, aren’t you?”

Chris hums, ignoring his last statement because it’s true, “Because we have to follow the rules, or else it’s a bad deal.” Chris pats his chest gently, although his smile is gone.

What happened to his drug lord down in the lobby to make him so stoic?

Tom leans into him, into that firm chest, hoping to feel Chris’ arms around him in a second.

He doesn’t.

“And what exactly is a bad deal?” He asks, pushing his question limits as he grabs his shirt from the bed, oddly hurt and upset. He knows not to be a brat this time. Chris had been generous today for this reason, he’d been spoiling his boy before going off to do business. Now, he’s a drug lord taking an escort to a deal.

Oddly enough, Chris answers him. “When there isn’t one. It’s as if the idea of no threats creates more tension, because everyone knows they’re armed when they shouldn’t be. People get hurt, there are misunderstandings, and things go sour. That’s a bad deal.”

The vest is a little obvious, so Chris gets Tom to wear his leather jacket, unzipped.

“Isn’t it too hot for this?” Tom mumbles as he pulls it on, noting the lingering scent of Chris’ cologne and real leather. It’s a little worn, but it’s comfortable and definitely hides the bumps of his vest.

“Not as hot during the night,” Chris mumbles back, eyeing Tom in his jacket before he cracks a small smile and steps forward, allowing his control to slip for just a second.

Tom tilts his head back and waits for a kiss, but all he gets is a little pinch to his chin. It’s just as much as a kiss from Chris’ lips, so he sighs and watches the Aussie move to change.

He’s incredibly unsatisfied.

“If you’ve changed your mind, please tell me now,” the Aussie says as he grabs a pair of black pants to put on.

There’s no way Tom’s changed his mind, vomit or not. “Just know that I’m not charging anything extra for this,” he tries at humour, “Because this is my own personal curiosity, it has nothing to do with Ashlie.”

Chris smirks as he removes his shirt, glancing over at Tom, “So, your kisses are free now?”

Despite such a serious situation and tense atmosphere, Chris still has the heart to tease him. Tom’s arms cross over his chest and he closes the distance between them, his eyebrow inching up as he stares at the blond, “They always have been.” He mutters, glancing away when he sees Chris’ face light up.

Chris wraps an arm around his shoulders and pulls him close, keeping Tom there as his head tilts up and there’s a smile pressed to his lips. Tom can’t help but to smile in return, both standing there, kissing for what feels like the last time.

It wraps Tom’s heart in fierce melancholy.

\--

They’re quiet as they leave the hotel, sliding into the backseat of the Mercedes when it pulls up, and Tom greets Clover in a quiet voice when he notices that the muscled man is in the passenger seat. His bodyguard doesn’t look too happy to see him, but he’d expected that in one way or another. Everyone knows Tom isn’t supposed to be here. They’re probably talking behind Chris’ back, questioning their boss and his decisions while Tom settles next to him in the car, oblivious to the dangers. Maybe they think him a little suicidal.

He notices another black car following them, and notes that it’s probably the rest of the men that work for the man next to him. When Clover hands Chris a handgun, Tom’s heart drops to his stomach, and he watches the Aussie handle it for a moment before checking the safety and glancing over at Tom.

“No weapons.” Tom mutters, eyes on the shining silver until it’s put away under Chris’ suit jacket.

_You’re incredibly stupid, you know that?_

Yes, he does.

\--

Just before the sun has completely set, they pull up to an old warehouse in the industrial part of Vegas. He’s seen nothing but scrap metal for the past ten minutes, with rusted machinery and people with engine grease permanently staining their skin from years of hard labour. It’s quiet out here, but the distant buzz of the city is deafening to Tom once he steps outside, looking around with wide eyes to take in the overgrown weeds interwoven with the chain-linked fence surrounding each property. There’s two trucks parked further down the way, with tinted windows and a driver in each. Tom sees one raise a phone to his mouth when Chris leaves the car, his expression set in stone again, looking so much colder than the man Tom’s grown to know over the past few days.

He turns and watches four other men leave the car that had been following them, all varying in heights and muscle and skin tones. They all glance at him, two murmuring to each other, before going over to Chris, who mumbles orders in Spanish. One nods and returns to the car he’d just left, while the others begin to move towards the building.

Chris doesn’t look at him, he just follows his men, and it’s Clover that motions Tom over.

Heart in his throat, Tom follows them inside with gravel crunching under his boots.

It’s cold and dimly lit in the warehouse, thankfully. It dries the thin layer of sweat on the nape of his neck, but the air is thick with tension and what smells faintly like perspiration. He wrinkles his nose at it as he follows Clover just a step behind, cautious of the shadows. There’s crates everywhere here, and for a second, he thinks of Indiana Jones. Strange.

He hears a loud, rough sounding laugh, and then loud Spanish, just before he rounds a large crate with Clover. It belongs to a bald man, dressed in all black, with a prominent nose and olive skin, and Tom freezes when those black eyes settle on him. The man’s arms go out, motioning to Chris and his men, and after a moment, Chris turns to tell two of his men something in his second tongue and they leave without question.

“What going on?” He whispers to Clover, noting three other men behind who he was guessing was the buyer, all dressed in black, too. The man closest to them with bright green eyes hasn’t stopped staring at Tom ever since they stepped out from around the corner, and it sets Tom’s teeth on edge. He tries to ignore him.

Clover glances at him, hands clasped in front of his body, and leans over to mumble, “He asked what was with the crowd, so Chris sent two men outside to watch. Now, we are even.”

So, it was a power game. Of sorts. The buyer wasn’t comfortable being outnumbered.

Those coal-like eyes settle on him again, Spanish leaving the buyer’s tongue, and Chris’ voice is smooth and calm compared to the roughness of the other’s. Tom tries to keep the confusion from his face when he hears Chris’ velvet laughter, but the second those harsh eyes are off him, he nudges Clover again, trying to ignore the lighter pair still staring from across the room.

Clover’s eyes never leave Chris and the man, who are closing the distance between them, “He asked about you,” he mutters, a slight frown on his lips, “Chris explained you are just part of his company and--”

Tom jumps, startled as the man staring at him suddenly freaks; yells quick Spanish at his boss – he catches the name ‘Fernán’ – while pointing a gloved finger at Tom, accusing him of something in a malicious voice and the atmosphere shifts as Chris and Clover’s expressions harden.

The man pulls out a handgun and points it straight at Tom, and his heart stops.

It’s probably a foolish mistake on his part, as Clover is quick to step in front of Tom and pull out his own gun, the man on the other side of Chris doing the same with a quick ‘click’, both of their faces void of expression. Chris and his buyer are in between five guns as the other three men point their weapons at the escort, and Tom breaks out in a cold sweat as worry settles deep in his gut.

There are three guns pointed at the hidden Brit, and no one moves. Not a sound is made, but Tom can hear his own heart racing and blood rushing to his ears as he reaches to grip onto Clover’s jacket just so he doesn’t fall to a heap on the floor.

He’s dizzy again when Fernán laughs, his heart pounding in his chest as the urge to run turns his legs to lead.

And then Chris chuckles, both of them laughing, as if it’s some inside joke. Tom feels sick.

Fernán turns to his men and tells them to put their guns away, and that’s what they do after a moment of hesitation. Chris simply lifts his hand, not bothering to look back, and Clover and the other man put their weapons away.

Tom presses his forehead to Clover’s back, clenching his jaw as he closes his watering eyes. The first time he’s been at gunpoint, and it’s with Chris present.

_You knew what you were getting into._

“Clover…”

“Shh,” the man shushes him, moving to stand next to Tom again, listening to Chris and the buyer talk as Tom tries to steady himself on his own two feet. He’s never wanted to know another language so badly in his life.

“What are they saying…?” He asks shakily, biting on his lower lip, stepping closer to the older man.

Clover’s lips press together, his brows drawn low, “They are talking about the deal now.”

Tom doesn’t ask anything else for a while. He’ll have to ask about earlier, whatever the man had said about him before the guns had come out. He’d seen a small flash of something akin to anger on Chris’ face then, but he was mostly unreadable now, discussing something with the buyer. The tension isn’t so obvious anymore, and Tom wonders how the deal will go now.

The two go to a nearby crate, where Chris opens up his suit jacket - the side that doesn’t have his gun - and pulls out a little bag filled with white powder, sealed off with a twist tie. He pulls out another, and then a third, and Tom steps closer to Clover again, nearly pressed against him. His knees are almost knocking together, and his palms are damp with cold sweat. The energy in here is stifling.

When he hears Chris’ Spanish, he asks Clover again for translation, his voice quiet.

“First bag is what buyer wants,” Clover mutters, his cool expression not changing, because he’s used to this and he’s not frightened like Tom, “Second and third is what Chris thinks he would like, for future buys.”

He watches them open up the bags, Fernán dipping his finger into the powder and bringing it up to his mouth. He tastes it, smacks his lips while Chris watches, his face void of emotion and he’s the most professional looking man in the place. It’s unnerving, and Tom flicks his gaze over to see that green-eyed man staring, still.

The third burst of laughter from Fernán startles Tom, flinching but looking over as he watches the man clap Chris on the back, who is chuckling, too. Their tones are conversational, Chris still talks with his hands, but the tension isn’t completely gone. Chris knows this man, but he doesn’t know Tom, and he just had one of his men try to get rid of him.

When Fernán places a bit of the powder on the back his hand and sniffs, Tom fidgets and looks away, uncomfortable. This man reminds him of his father. Loud, unpredictable, and acting as if everything is fine when it’s not. It leaves Tom more shaken than he’d readily admit to.

“They are going over technical things, already decided on,” Clover mutters, shifting his weight between his feet, like this is just protocol, “How much, when to pick it up, where to go…things like that.”

It takes ten more minutes before the two are finally shaking hands, completing the deal, but Tom isn’t relieved just yet. The little bags are given to the buyer, as a small gift for waiting and a potential apology for bringing a stranger, and they part ways with that tension still following them. Those green eyes watch him until he turns, following Fernán, and Tom sighs.

When Chris turns to them, his easy-going smile melts and he gives Clover a hard look.

Chris doesn’t touch or look at Tom when the four of them leave the warehouse, but he does make sure Tom leaves before he and Clover, just behind the other man. He listens to Chris mutter Spanish to Clover as they walk to the cars, his tone low and harsh, and it sends a chill up Tom’s spine.

He’d have to ask about that, too.

Even in the car, Chris doesn’t acknowledge him. Everyone is tense but there’s also relief of a deal gone through despite the little bump along the way.

But the point is that Tom had seen what he’d been asking about, what he’d been dying to experience, and he’s undoubtedly shaken. It was the tension, the guns, the drugs. He’d always felt some sort of tension for most of his life, whether it was skirting around his abusive father or equally abusive sugar daddy, but never guns. He’d never been faced with the reality of death before.

His hands won’t stop shaking.

Nothing is distracting enough, not the passing city or the soft music playing throughout the car. He knows Chris is beside him, but they don’t talk. Something is building up with the silence and Tom’s scared for what it might be. Instead, he fidgets, and waits until he sees the familiar fountains before feeling somewhat safe again.

The danger lingers even as they make their way through the casino, the group of men dispersing expertly to blend into the crowd, and Tom walks beside Chris while Clover wishes them a good night. He disappears into the crowd, too, and Tom wishes he hadn’t.

There’s another person in the elevator with them, an older woman, who eyes them before getting off on the third floor without saying something, although Tom’s pretty sure she had sensed the atmosphere between them.

Then, they’re alone. Their alone time has been nothing but pleasant until now.

The elevator climbs up to their floor quietly, with a little melody filtering through the speakers, and Tom eyes the ground as he feels Chris’ eyes on him. He can’t look at him. Chris, his Chris, the drug lord that’s been nothing but quiet affection and easy smiles, is a man that Tom can’t decide if he wants to go to or ignore completely.

But, when Chris crosses the elevator and pins him to the wall, he knows he can’t ignore Chris. Never. He grabs at the Aussie when his head is tilted back and there’s a hot mouth on his, searing his lips with his tongue in a perfect way that makes Tom whimper. Those rough hands grab at his body, desperate and needy, and Tom’s more than willing to give himself over, obligation or not. He’ll do anything for that sense of security he knows only Chris can offer.

" _Estás a salvo aquí,_ ” Chris breathes as he crowds him into the corner, kissing his neck, “ _Aquí en mis brazos…_ ”

He has no idea what Chris is saying, but he pulls the blond into another kiss, feeling his face crumple as the thought of a bullet piercing either one of them squeezes his heart painfully with emotion.

Chris breaks the kiss, mumbling, “Baby, baby,” and Tom turns his face, feeling Chris’ nose press against his cheek as he tries to catch his breath. He’s swept away by Chris so easily, he forgets who he is, and it’s so dangerous that he can’t realize it until it’s too late.

Chris makes him forget himself, and he doesn’t know if he should be thankful for not.

The doors open, and Chris pulls them out of the cramped space, their pinkies wrapped around each other’s as they walk. Tom’s legs feel like Jell-O, shaking as he walks, ready to burst with whatever’s still building between them.

Chris presses him into the door before they enter, and Tom gasps, his brows furrowing as he pushes against that strong chest.

“Easy,” Chris murmurs into his hair, and Tom feels his entire body begin to tremble against him, “You’re okay, sweetheart, relax…”

He’s jumpy. He’s ready to run. He wants to get away but this is exactly where he wants to be.

Chris takes him inside the room they had slept in, shutting and locking it securely behind them. Tom’s chest loosens, just a little, because this is the last place he felt safe and it’s just he and Chris now. When Chris comes over, touches him with gentle caresses, Tom lets him. He lifts his arms when his shirt bunches under them, his skin pricking with goosebumps as Chris hooks his finger into the waist of his pants.

_Let him do it._

He panics, “Don’t--” but stops himself, pressing his lips together, and Chris _does_ stop but then Tom grabs his hands, “No, please…”

“You’re not making any sense.” Chris is frustrated, understandably so. Tom is fighting himself and he’s caught in the middle of it.

He doesn’t want to be naked right now. He wants to bundle up like he does back in his apartment, but feeling Chris’ warmth is just as good and he knows he can’t have it without being nude. Clothing only ruins it, makes him too hot.

So, he lets Chris slowly pull down his pants. He watches him the entire time, staring with a frown, until his underwear goes, too. He fidgets, wanting to cover himself, but Chris stands and Tom needs his skin.

He takes over undressing the Aussie, slowly popping the buttons from their holes, until his hands are barely shaking and he slides his hands over tanned skin. He unzips his pants carefully, pushing them down his strong legs, and slides the underwear from his hips, too.

When he stands, Chris takes him to bed. They settle under the duvet and Tom buries his face in Chris’ chest, as he always does, and breathes in and out, in and out. He closes this eyes and focuses on not feeling. He tries to numb himself from this, but it’s new, this is something he hasn’t experienced and it’s hard to numb yourself to something you don’t know how to react to.

Time doesn’t exist here. He lays there with Chris, trying to retreat into himself like he always does, but Chris keeps him present with gentle touches or light kisses. He eyes the hollow Chris’ throat, his face twitching with passing emotions, and he doesn’t care that Chris can see them. If anyone was to see him like this, he’d rather it be Chris.

Something is changing and now Tom understands what it was building between them. Still, he’s not ready to admit it. He can pretend he’s oblivious to it. He can be ignorant all he wants, without a problem. He can be a brat with Chris sometimes, and Chris can annoy him, and they can talk about anything and everything without hesitation. They can lay together in a dark hotel room and not worry about being killed in their sleep.

Soon enough, Chris’ breaths even out, and Tom’s not even close to tired.

“’m going to sleep,” Chris murmurs into his curls, and Tom drapes his arm over the Aussie’s middle, still breathing him in.

Instead of responding, he traces words into that tanned skin - whatever comes to mind. Night. Day. Coke. Wine. Kiss. Chris. _Safe_.

Chris falls asleep before him, and Tom lays there in the dark, safe and scared and comfortable and fidgeting.

**

The phone rings, the sound shrill and far too loud, around nine the next morning. It rings again, and when Chris doesn’t move to get it, Tom does.

He reaches from under the duvet, feels around the bedside table, and unhooks the phone from its base. Bringing it under the covers to his ear, he mumbles with his eyes closed, “What?”

_“Tom?”_

It’s Clover. “Yeah…” He stifles a yawn, turning away from Chris who’s trying to pull him close again.

_“Is Chris awake?”_

“No, he’s sleeping…” He rubs at his eye, trying to clear the fuzziness.

He hears Clover sigh, _“Alright, just tell him the jet will be here around two.”_

“I will,” Tom mumbles, and then the line is quiet for a moment, before he asks, “Clover…?--”

_“--Are you okay?”_

It’s such an odd and sudden question that Tom doesn’t know how to respond. Of course, his first instinct is to lie with ‘why wouldn’t I be’, but he holds back. Clover trusts him, and so Tom should try to do the same for him.

“I’m…” he pauses, and shifts to balance himself on his side, away from Chris and closer to the phone, “I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about it.”

_“Okay. Just making sure. See you later.”_

“Wait, wait--Clover, wait.”

_“Hm?”_

He tangles his fingers in the phone cord, staring down at the white sheets as he stalls to gather some nerve, “What did…that man say about me, last night?”

Clover’s silence is much longer, and it makes Tom feel a little unsettled.

_“Chris said you were his company, and so the man asked if you were a…whore. And, if he could borrow you for a night.”_

The usual disgust settles in Tom’s stomach at the thought of sleeping with a man who reminded him of his father, but he says nothing. Chris had been angry upon hearing that, and it made Tom feel…good. Chris didn’t see him like his buyer did, Tom was more than someone he just fucked. Maybe he did actually care.

“Can I ask one more thing?”

_“Si.”_

“What did he say to you when we were walking back to the car?” It wasn’t any of his business, but these were some of the only things Clover hadn’t translated for him. He needed to know.

Apparently his curiosity still wasn’t sated.

_“Tom...”_

“Tell me.”

_“Why does it matter?”_

“Because it’s Chris.”

Chris, his lovely, terrible, sweet Chris.

Clover sighs, mumbles something under his breath in his native tongue, before finally admitting, _“He said if he came across the buyer again, he would not hesitate to cut his tongue out.”_

Tom can’t help his tiny smile.

“Okay, that’s all.” He murmurs, satisfied.

_“Good, you are too curious. See you at one.”_

“Yeah, see you.”

He untangles his fingers from the cord and places the phone back gently, trying to not make so much noise that he’d rouse Chris before he was ready to.

Quietly, he slips under the covers again and moves to cuddle next to the drug lord’s side, nuzzling his muscled shoulder with the tip of his nose.

“Oh, Chris,” he whispers, just under his breath, and closes his eyes. Chris was…confusing. Tom couldn’t pin him down. He’s never felt anything like what he and Chris have, this weird relationship that should be nothing more than business between an escort and a client, but they both know they’ve passed that. This is uncharted territory and Chris is the only thing keeping him safe in the unknown. Tom can’t trust himself anymore, just yesterday he was happy and smiling and not who he was at all. Chris was changing him.

_Nobody can fix you, Tom. Only you can._

He doesn’t want to be fixed. He can’t be.

Yet, Chris cared. He cared for Tom. He can’t be completely sure there isn’t some kind of ulterior motive with Chris, but from what Tom’s seen, there couldn’t be. Chris may be a drug lord but he’s a good person despite the labels placed upon him. He’s good to Tom. And he can’t blame himself for enjoying that.

After a few quiet moments, he attempts to rouse the blond with small touches, sliding his fingertips over warm skin. He hears Chris stir awake, humming while half asleep as a hand comes up to rub his eyes, and Tom hooks his leg around Chris’ as he grinds his hips against the hard muscle of his thigh to give his daddy a proper ‘good morning’.

Chris pins his boy onto his back without hesitation and Tom holds onto him for dear life, digging his nails into bronzed skin, desperate for contact in a way he has never been before. He feels lazy kisses against his neck as Chris settles heavy between his thighs, rocking against him, until Tom’s scratching red lines down his back again.

“Please,” he breathes, tilting his head back as Chris sucks a bruise into his neck, marking him with their passion, “Daddy, please…”

But Chris takes his time, exploring every inch of skin beneath him, worshipping Tom’s body in the gentle light of the morning barely streaming through the heavy curtains. Tom closes his eyes, slides his arms against the white sheets, wraps his legs around Chris’ waist and they laugh softly when his foot becomes tangled in the sheets.

It’s slow and lazy, as morning sex should be, but it’s far from boring. It’s searing heat and heavy hands, no kisses but plenty of gentle bites. Tom’s breath hitches, Chris groans, as those thick fingers are quickly slicked by spit and are pressing in, in, in, until he whimpers for his daddy, his Chris.

“Please, inside,” he gasps, face flushed as he digs his fingers into the meat of Chris’ ass, pressing their hips together, and he pouts when the Aussie has to grab a condom. He holds back the ‘no’ on his tongue, instead slips two fingers into his mouth and then presses them inside himself, grinning like the little devil he is when Chris finally returns.

The Aussie groans, deep in his throat, and wastes no more time. The suffocating atmosphere returns when Chris hovers over him, the empty condom wrapper falling off the edge of the bed once Chris pushes in, bullying past that tight muscle. Tom nearly chokes on his soft cry, face crumpling in mild pain, but Chris kisses his nose and cheeks and between his eyebrows as he waits, patient as Tom adjusts to the size of him.

“Okay,” he whispers, wrapping his arms around Chris’ broad shoulders, soft little ‘uh’s tumbling from his lips every time Chris’ hips meet his, reaching so deep and stretching him so wide. It’s a delicious feeling he’ll never tire of, feeling Chris inside him, those strong hips between his spread thighs, dragging out and pushing in at a perfectly torturous pace. He can trust Chris to take care of him, like this.

His stomach tenses, the urge to come settling deep in his gut, but he can’t let go of Chris. He holds him close, feels warm breath against his neck, Spanish murmured into the damp skin that his Aussie kisses until he’s rubbing against that spot and Tom’s gasps turn to needy whines and he comes messily between them, untouched.

“Daddy,” he whispers, threading his fingers through Chris’ hair, his legs trembling as Chris continues to thrust, “Come inside me, daddy,” he groans softly, “Fill me up, please…please, please, please…”

“Only for you, baby,” he breathes, and because Tom’s asked so nicely, Chris releases into the condom in long spurts, rutting his hips a few times to ride out the waves of his climax. Tom pets his hair and shoulders, touches Chris as he clenches around him, wanting every last drop. For a crazy moment, he wishes there hadn’t been that barrier. He wants Chris as he is, with nothing separating them, but it’s a fleeting thought and he knows he can never have it. Not when he’s everyone else’s.

They lay there, taking deep breaths to calm racing hearts. Chris is heavy on him, but Tom doesn’t mind. He plays with the longer parts of his hair, twirling dark blond strands between his fingers as he controls his breathing. There’s a soft quirk of his lips when Chris nuzzles him, the roughness of his trimmed beard gently scraping the skin of his chest, nearly tickling.

Chris nuzzles him again, on his neck this time, and Tom giggles softly, a strange little ‘ehehe’ sound that filters through his teeth and tongue on accident. It makes Chris chuckle, too, and he rubs his jaw across Tom’s collarbones on purpose.

“Hey,” he swats at Chris, boneless and lazy, “Stop that.”

“Why?” Chris smiles and lifts his head to look down at the Brit, “I remember what happened last time I tickled you…”

Tom closes his eyes in an attempt of gaining patience and Chris laughs, again. Of course he’d remember something like that.

He mutters a soft ‘shut up’ and unravels his arms from around Chris’ neck, reaching up to push his blond mop of curls back from his forehead. When he’s back to earth, he murmurs, “Clover called,” grimacing as Chris lifts himself up and off Tom, leaving him uncomfortably open, “Said the jet is going to be here at two…”

“Two?” Chris echoes, heading over to the bathroom. Tom watches him go, admiring every round muscle and the dip of tendons as the Aussie walks around the bed.

“Yes, two,” Tom mutters, kicking the duvet off and glancing down at the mess on his stomach.

When Chris comes back, the condom is gone and he has a damp face towel in hand, and he cleans Tom with two slow passes across his stomach. Tom stretches out like a cat, nearly purring as he reaches for the Aussie again, smirking as Chris tosses the towel towards the bathroom and climbs back into bed.

He watches Chris then, quiet as he pulls the duvet up to his chin, chilled without the Aussie’s skin against his. And Chris, as always, stares back. It’s almost like a contest, but the stare isn’t intense. It’s shy yet strong, and it makes Chris smirk when Tom looks away. He can’t hold that blue gaze for more than ten seconds; makes him a little nervous.

“I asked Clover about last night,” he murmurs suddenly, the topic coming to mind.

Chris’ eyebrow lifts in a silent question.

“About what you said to him, after the deal,” he licks his lips and flicks his eyes down, “About you promising to cut that man’s tongue out if you ever see him again…” And he instantly feels foolish for bringing it up, his cheeks flushing as he listens to himself. He sounds hopeful, and a little vulnerable, everything he’s trying desperately not to be with Chris.

Yet, his man only smiles. It’s soft and sincere and it soothes away any bad feelings Tom had.

“It was a violent and bloody promise,” Chris murmurs, reaching over to push Tom’s curls back, “But, I mean it. No one should talk about you like that,” he pauses before adding, “Not even yourself…”

Tom presses his lips together, trying to stop himself from talking. Chris believes him to be better than who he actually is, that he’s not just an escort, and he’s trying to get Tom to believe it, too. “It’s not that easy, Chris…” he murmurs in return, not meeting the Aussie’s gaze.

“Why?” Chris thumbs at his cheekbone gently, and Tom wishes he would stop, “When you tell so many lies, Thomas, it’s hard to understand the truth.”

“I have no idea what you mean,” Tom sighs, his brows coming together as he moves his face away from the drug lord’s touch, his voice soft, “I lie to protect myself. It’s my only defense.”

“Your only defense?” Chris sounds like he can’t believe it, but he’s not mocking, and Tom looks up to meet his gaze, “What about truth? Honesty? Do those mean nothing?”

“Not to me,” Tom’s voice is so soft, he wonders if Chris can even hear him, “Ignorance is my only saviour.”

“You sound silly,” Chris sighs, like he’s a little disappointed, and it ruffles Tom’s feathers a bit. He wasn’t _silly_. An abusive past was not _silly_. Forcing yourself to believe everything was fine when it wasn’t is not _silly_.

“Sweetheart, don’t be mad. I didn’t mean it like that.”

Did he show his anger on his face?

_You’re usually better at keeping a poker face._

“You probably didn’t,” Tom picks at a loose thread in the duvet, both of them concentrated on it, “I just can’t think like you. We’re different.”

“Are we?”

Tom lifts his head and gives him a look.

“You don’t know that we’re quite similar,” Chris mutters, his tone light.

“Yeah, because you won’t open up,” Tom gives him a mean look, put off at the very idea of being blamed for not knowing something he wasn’t told. He pauses for a moment, eyes flicking around the white sheets before he moves closer to the blond, staring at him without that shyness he was trying to cling to earlier. He’ll face Chris the way he knows he can, and should. Openly.

“Neither do you,” Chris murmurs, resting a hand on Tom’s hip, trying to pull him in, “I ask all the time about you.”

He knows better than to talk. He’s not going to show Chris the ugliest side of him after only a handful of days together. They have a connection, yes, he’ll admit it, but he can’t admit to anything else just yet. He’d rather stick needles under his fingernails than talk about his past.

But, he has another burning question, one that can’t go unasked. The current topic isn’t something he wants to continue. Nevertheless, he presses himself against Chris, the warmth making him sigh in relief.

“Why did you let me go with you?” He whispers, pressing his lips to Chris’ chest, just over his heart.

“Because I had hoped it would scare you away,” Chris whispers back, his voice mixed with something in between regret and disappointment, “But, I don’t think it worked in my favour…”

He’d tried to scare Tom away from his lifestyle, away from _him_ , the Spanish speaking Aussie that runs a cartel down in Columbia. He was, as always, protecting Tom in his own way.

“I’m still here,” Tom places his hand on Chris’ stomach, touching the hard muscle and feeling it tense under his touch, “I’m not going anywhere, Chris.” No matter what he tries.

The Aussie sighs, sounding relieved, and Tom presses his cheek to the chest he loves, closing his eyes after a few slow blinks.

They lay there in silence, listening to one another breath. If he concentrates hard enough, Tom can hear Chris’ heartbeat. Slow, steady, calm. He brushes his toes against Chris’ calf, smiling when he feels the Aussie nudge him in return. He’s going to miss this. He’s going back to where he’s not wanted, where he’s used completely. Here, in this hotel room, he’s wanted. Cherished, almost. Chris treats him like he’s more than what he is. He pretends to care where the other clients don’t, although Tom’s pretty sure he’s not just pretending anymore. He’s genuine and honest, just as much as he is dangerous. Chris is everything he adores in a person, so it makes him upset that he doesn’t know when they’ll see each other again.

And for a brief, lingering moment, Tom is scared to go home.


	12. 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _"I don’t want your love unless you know I am repulsive, and love me even as you know it."_  
>  Georges Bataille, _My Mother/Madame Edwarda/The Dead Man._

_“Goooood morning, Seattle! This is KUBE ninty-three point three at six a.m. on the dot with your morning talk show, so consider this your wakeup call! It’s time to get up, grab that cup of coffee, and face the day…”_

He hears the pitter-patter of rain against the window, just over the static-filled, peppy voice coming from the alarm clock just a few feet from him. He opens his sleep-crusted eyes slowly, the deep blue of the room coming into focus, washing his vision in hazy hues. His toes curl against the crisp sheets and he slides his legs around, rolling onto his stomach easily, and props himself up onto his elbows as he pushes his curls from his forehead to begin waking up.

_Why did Daphne set the alarm?_

It takes him a moment, but he crawls over to the empty side of the bed and hits the large glowing light at the top of the little box, letting the sweet sound of downpour fill the room. He settles back onto the bed with a huff, curling into the middle of the bed, trying to force himself back into sleep.

He can’t.

Pink knuckles rub at blue eyes, until Tom’s awake and he’s cursing his client under his morning breath. Daphne had left last night, after another quick fuck. She’s flown him out yesterday, early, explaining that she was in Washington for a big meeting that was very important for a potential promotion, and she was in need of him. More than usual, anyway.

Tom had arrived, wearing dark lace panties and a matching bra under his clothes, because he knew her. She would want to blow off some steam right away. He even opened himself up for her, back arched and chest down like the whore she wanted, ignoring the lingering thought of thicker digits that he knew reached further than his own. He whimpered and bit his lip at the memories, so sweet in the back of his mind, unable to let them go, even now.

He barely kept back another name as she pushed her strap-on into him, choking around a ‘C’ that he smothered into a pillow.

And once she was satisfied, after Tom fucked her against the edge of the bed, she left for her meeting. Tom was alone, showering the stink from his body, scrubbing his skin until it bloomed pink and he felt a little better about himself.

She returned late, just before midnight, tipsy and happy. She thanked him with plenty of kisses and groping touches, and Tom laughed into her mouth, closing his eyes as he let her touch him despite not wanting to be.

After another quick round – _“Just to make this worth it.”_ – she left for her two a.m. flight back home. He’d have the hotel room to himself for the night and his flight was tomorrow afternoon, three o’clock, just make sure to check out before eleven, okay?

Maybe she’d left the alarm on from the morning before.

He’d showered again, soaked in a warm bath until it cooled, and grabbed his book from his luggage before slipping into bed for the night.

Now, in the early morning, he can’t ignore the buzz of his phone. And although he’d succeeded in not texting anyone in particular, that person has text him first, for the first time in days.

_‘I miss your reluctant kisses. C.’_

It’s been three and a half weeks – or was it a month? – since Vegas. Things were definitely strange when he had returned home; his cigarettes had gone stale and dried up, Netflix had run out of good suggestions, and the Chinese takeout seemed greasier and left him far more bloated than usual. He hadn’t seen Chris since then, but he’d received these rare yet sweet texts, and even rarer calls that were filled with idle chat just so Chris could hear his voice. Tom would always end the calls with a little spiteful, “ _Te adoro siempre.”_ And Chris’ warm laughter would always make him smile, just a little, although he fought it. He didn’t want to be the type of person who smiled into a phone receiver.

He decides to not reply to Chris just yet, instead he snuggles under the blankets and stares out at the rain-streaked window to the blue city outside, seeing a peek of rising sun through the thick clouds.

In those three or four weeks apart, he’s gained two new steady clients among the random evening calls to hotel rooms and cocktail parties. A balding man named Chester, who has put most of his time and energy into some company he’d inherited, and oddly always reminds Tom of cheese. Chester calls him ‘Angel’; it’s another name to add to the list.

The other is a woman, Sonja, who is younger than Daphne and he’s sure she’s falling for him. That, or she’s a better actor than Tom with her lingering touches and far-too sincere confessions. Her hair was a copper colour, and she was as thin as Tom but with more freckles. She was tall, a part-time model and full-time student, who was in need of a ‘boyfriend’ to please her parents. He’d participated in double dates and went to a wedding, where he fucked her afterwards in her hotel room that he wasn’t allowed to stay in but did. It was strange. It was almost _normal_. Would that have been his life, had he grown up with a proper family and genuine love?

It put him off more than anything, really.

His phone buzzes again, and with a huff, reaches up to blindly feel around until he has it in his hand. With a swipe of his thumb, he reads Chris’ new text with a pout.

_‘Do you miss the snow?’_

Despite his sleepy mind, Tom furrows his eyebrows and uses both thumbs to text back, ‘What?’

_‘Snow. Winter.’_

‘I’ve had my fill in the UK, thank you.’

_‘Sweetheart.’_

‘Chris.’ He’s too tired for this.

_‘You’re probably half asleep, so I will spell it out for you: we are going to the Alps.’_

_That_ certainly wakes him up. He even sits up a bit, brows furrowed as he types away, ‘What? When?’

_‘Two weeks, for a few days. Have you been to Switzerland?’_

He scoffs, leaning back on the pillows, ‘Of course not.’

_‘Good. I’ll book a lodge for the weekend, just us.’_

It’s never ‘just us’ with Chris, and he tells him so.

_‘I mean it. Clover is taking over for a few days, we’re not telling anyone where we’re going, and we’ll both be using an alias.’_

‘An undercover vacation, then?’ He smirks, falling onto his back.

_‘Of sorts.’_ The next message comes a few seconds later _, ‘Alright? You’ll come with me?’_

‘I always come with you. Not necessarily at the same time, but generally, I do.’

He’s so clever.

_‘Thomas.’_

Ooh, so formal. ‘Am I in trouble?’ He sends another, ‘Are you going to spank me, daddy?’ He can’t hold back his laugh now, his tongue peeking between his teeth as he smiles at the little grey bubble that shows Chris is typing.

_‘You’re going to be in trouble if you don’t stop.’_

Oh, he _has_ to push it. ‘Why? Are you busy?’ He can’t stop himself, ‘Are you getting hard before a meeting with your men?’

He laughs at Chris’ response, _‘A buyer.’_

He’s absolutely delighted, rolling onto his stomach with a playful smirk, ‘Just imagine I’m on my knees for you, daddy. Nuzzling the front of your pants, licking a wet spot into them. You can pull on my hair, hard, if you want.’

Instead of a message, his phone vibrates as Chris’ picture fills his screen, a lovely little image of a sleeping drug lord that Tom had snapped in Vegas. He answers it without thinking, biting his lip as he holds the phone to his ear, eyes downcast, “Daddy…?”

“Your perky little ass is going to be bright red once I’m done with you.”

Tom drags his bottom lip through his teeth, smiling with a soft hum, loving the sound of Chris’ voice when he’s aroused. It was low and his accent went a little more Spanish.

“Just one message and you’re ready to fuck me?” He asks innocently, “Wow, daddy…”

“I haven’t had sex since we left Vegas.”

Tom’s eyebrows inch up at that, “And you have to wait two more weeks,” he says, the breathiness of his tone gone.

“Yes,” Chris sounds a little pained about it, “But, it’ll be worth it. Do you want to know what I’m going to do to you?”

He presses his thighs together, a hand idly trailing down his front, biting his lip again as he mutters, “Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

He sighs softly, closing his eyes, “Yes, _daddy_ …”

“Good boy.” Tom preens at that, imagining a heavy hand petting his curls, “Once we get there, I’m going to take you to bed. You’ll be tired and grumpy from the flight, so you’ll resist, just a little. You’ll act out, so I’ll take you over my knee. I’ll spank you until your lovely little ass is red and sore, and you’re begging me to stop and fuck you. Then, I’ll put you on your stomach, and eat you out until you cum from just my tongue. Naughty boys don’t get daddy’s dick just by asking. No, you’re going to beg me, with tears in your eyes and with a desperate voice, with those pretty little gasps you save just for me.”

What had started as simple teasing left Tom’s mouth dry, his cock already half hard against the bed, and all he can do is whimper into the receiver, utterly breathless.

“Does that sound good, baby?”

He nods, eyes glazing over, until he realizes Chris can’t see him, so he licks his lips and whispers, “Yes, daddy…”

“Are you hard?”

He whispers another ‘yes’.

“Do you want daddy to help you cum?”

“Please,” he breathes, beginning to move his hips against the bed, rutting with a soft sigh that’s sweet to Chris’ ears across the line, “Please make me cum, daddy…”

Chris’ hum is deep, and Tom can imagine the look on his face, eyes hooded and a pleased look on his face.

“Do you want to ride daddy’s cock?”

Tom shudders and murmurs, “Yes. Please, I want it.” Chris gets him so worked up so effortlessly. He’s hard against the bed, his free hand already reaching back between his cheeks, touching the warm, furled skin he finds there with a soft moan.

“What a pretty sound,” Chris hums, “Are you touching yourself?”

Tom make an affirmative sound, so Chris asks, “Where?”

Even without the Aussie here, and despite his prowess in the bedroom, he manages to embarrass Tom in bed. It’s one thing to show Chris where he’s touching himself, and another to actually tell him. His face burns, but he says nothing, just rubs his fingertip against the twitching muscle with a shuddered sigh.

“Do you wish it were my mouth instead of your fingers?” Chris murmurs, his voice low in Tom’s ear, filling his head as the Brit closes his eyes, and _god yes_ , he does. He’d give anything to have Chris eat him out, to feel the burn of his beard on his inner thighs, forcing his tongue into Tom until he felt loose and wet, sloppy with spit.

“Daddy,” he mewls, pressing his finger against his hole as he ruts into the bed, his hips working frantically.

“Do you have lube?” Chris asks, his breath laboured, and Tom can hear the faint sound of a zipper being pulled down on the other end.

“Y-Yes,” he stutters, already pushing himself out of bed, keeping the phone pressed to his ear as he rushes over to his luggage across the room.

“Good,” Chris breathes, his voice breathy in the way that means he’s touching himself, slow strokes that Tom wishes he could do for him.

“Can I taste your cock, daddy?” Tom asks sweetly, slipping back into bed and putting his phone on speaker, setting it down gingerly onto the pillow next to him.

Chris groans, his breath hitching, and he murmurs back, “Of course you can, sweetheart. Take me as deep as you can.”

He wants the weight of Chris’ cock on his tongue, the thick vein on the flat of his tongue, to taste the little white pearl of precum he can coax out.

“You taste so good, daddy,” Tom sighs, uncapping the little bottle in his hand and squeezing some into his palm, smearing it onto three fingers, “I’m ready…”

“Will you keep sucking me as you finger yourself?” Chris asks, his voice still a little breathless, his words curling around his accent beautifully.

Tom whines at the image, just as he presses a finger against his hole, rubbing the slick tip against the tightness before sinking in with a gentle gasp, “Yes, I will,” he reaches with his other hand to pull his cheeks apart, moaning as he pushes his finger deeper.

“Does it feel good?” Chris asks, his voice gentle over the phone, “Add another, I know you like a little pain.”

How does Chris know his body so well? He presses a second finger in with the first, a sharp little cry leaving his lips at the dull burn, “It’s not the same,” he pants, turning his head towards the phone that’s fallen from the pillow and down near Tom’s mouth, “Daddy, they’re not thick enough…”

“Shh,” Chris soothes him, “When you’re ready, add another. Try to find your prostate for me, can you reach it?”

He lets out a sob as his fingers brush that spot inside him, “Barely,” he whines, lifting his hips and settling onto his knees, trying to finger himself, imagining it’s Chris but it’s not good enough. Chris’ fingers are thicker and a little longer than his, able to reach his prostate with ease, and Tom’s wrist was beginning to hurt.

After a moment, he adds the third finger, and the stretch makes him moan loudly. Finally.

“That’s it, baby,” Chris coos, his voice soft but full of his lust, “Just like that. Press them in all the way, get in deep, just like I would. Touch your pretty cock for me, too. Play with the tip… _fuck_ \--” Chris moans, and Tom realizes he must be doing the same to himself. It makes him whine, needy with the urge to cum, his cock swollen in his grip. He thumbs at the tip, trying to balance himself on the bed, but he ends up moving onto his back and shoving his fingers back into himself, bringing a knee up to his chest with a sigh.

“You close, baby?” Chris pants gently.

“Mhm,” Tom hums and whines, eyes closed and brows scrunched as he aimed for his prostate and dug his fingernail into the wet slit at the tip of his cock.

“Me too,” Chris grunts, his voice sounding ragged as he teetered on the edge of release, “Cum for me, baby. Come on.”

Chris murmurs encouragements as Tom fucks himself, fingers pressing and curling deep, fisting his cock until his back arches and he’s clenching around his fingers, a choked sob wracking his body as he paints his stomach with stripes of white, creamy and hot on his skin. He hears Chris’ moan in his ear, pleased, before Chris curses under his breath and Tom knows he’s cum, too.

He lays there, slick fingers on the bed as his other hand continues to stroke lazily, milking out the last of the sticky little drops.

“I wish you could lick this off my stomach,” he breathes, turning his face to the phone, knowing he’d be smothered in kisses were Chris here. At this point, he wouldn’t mind it.

Chris groans, aroused but tired, and murmurs, “I’d clean you up good, babe. Not a drop missed.”

Tom smiles at that, imagining it, a hot tongue swiping through the mess on his stomach, and a shared kiss afterwards.

He aches for him.

“Two weeks,” he murmurs into the phone, closing his eyes as he hears the rain on the window again.

“Two weeks,” Chris sighs, and a familiar silence washes over them, both enjoying their own little states of bliss together despite the miles - maybe even countries - apart.

After another minute, Chris speaks up, “You little minx, you made me late to my meeting. I have to go.”

Tom bursts out in a small fit of laughter, his sleepiness gone as he places his hands over his face, laughing into them. He hears Chris’ chuckles and sits up, grabbing the phone and turning off the speaker to hold Chris to his ear again, “Fine, go,” Tom sighs with a smile, amused, “Tell them you had other business to deal with.”

He can hear Chris’ smirk as he uses the blanket to clean himself, “No, I’m going to tell them I had a naughty little boy to take care of.”

“Don’t you dare!” Tom says, going over to the window and peering out at the grey city, brows furrowing.

“I won’t forget to add the fact that you call me ‘daddy’, either.”

“Hey,” Tom turned away from the window, “I’m not the one who started it. I’m just doing my job.”

“So, if I didn’t pay you, you wouldn’t say it?”

In all honesty, Tom would. Only because it was Chris. He stands in the middle of his dark hotel room, wraps an arm around himself, and says nothing. He hates these questions, because it’s getting harder and harder to lie to him.

“I would,” he admits in a whisper, and Chris doesn’t say anything, there’s just an understanding silence.

He hears someone call Chris’ name in the background, and Chris breaks from the phone to say something in Spanish before he’s back, “I’ll call you once I get everything cleared with Ashlie, alright?”

“Alright,” Tom murmurs, and waits a moment before says, “ _Te adoro siempre.”_ And hangs up after hearing Chris’ gentle laughter. He never understood why Chris laughed every single time Tom said he hated him.

Alone again, he tosses his phone onto the bed and decides to sleep a little while longer before heading out to the airport that’ll take him back home.

**

Despite the fact that it’s nearing October, it’s still hot. To a Brit like him, anyway. Where most were wearing sweaters during the evening, Tom went with a pair of jeans and a thin t-shirt. The days were no longer unbearably hot, and Tom was happy. Most days he’d wake up alone, eat breakfast on the balcony, and wonder what to do with himself. Some mornings, he’d have breakfast with Daphne, and in the afternoon, accompany Sonja to a family barbeque, giving everyone his side of their story of how they met at campus and have been dating for a few weeks. They were very happy. She was, anyway. Tom just kept his arm around her and smiled.

“Tommy.”

He snapped out of his little trance, blinking himself back to reality.

Ashlie. Penthouse. Meeting. Right, they’re discussing the trip.

“Yeah?” He clears his throat, taking a sip of his glass of water he’d accepted earlier.

“Were you listening to me?”

“No.”

Ashlie stares for half a second before he begins to laugh, shaking his head at how silly Tom is, while the Brit just looks away and takes a sip of his beading glass. “Well, I was saying that you should be careful.”

Tom’s brows furrow and he glances at his boss, “With what?”

“With Chris.”

The line between his brows deepens, genuinely caught off-guard, “What do you mean?”

There’s no need to manipulate Ashlie now, he readily speaks with sun-cracked lips and hazy breath, “He likes you, I can tell. You don’t want to get mixed into something with someone like him.”

Tom doesn’t believe him, refuses to accept the fact that his boss is actually _warning_ him about one of his clients. Ashlie is a pimp and Chris, a drug lord; they work in the same area of illegality, he shouldn’t be trusting either of them. Yet, he does, but he doesn’t want to think of who he trusts more.

And it disturbs him to know that Ashlie is a lot more perceptive than he’s let on. Chris likes him, and it’s obvious. It’s unwanted attention to Ashlie, because he knows Chris has enemies and Tom is probably correct in assuming he makes Ashlie the most money, so to lose him in an…accident, would be horrible. Horrible for business.

“Is that so?” Tom murmurs, wishing for another cigarette.

“He’s bad news, Tommy-boy.” Ashlie turns to the cupboards, dark arms lifted to pull a glass down, “I know I said I was his friend and all, but I know what he’s done, and what’s happened to him. What _could_ happen to him, and anyone he’s connected with. And I don’t want none of that for you, y’know?”

_But it would be one less whore to deal with._

And like he’s said, less money; you’re cutting revenue by having a dead escort.

“But, it’s not for business,” Tom mutters, watching the darker man pour whiskey into the glass, “He said it’s just me and him. No one else.”

Ashlie stops; freezes. The pouring stops, bottle lifted in the air, and Tom wonders if he’d said the wrong thing.

“…did he?”

“Yes,” Tom plays it cool, meeting Ashlie’s gaze when he turns around.

His gaze is calculated, wary, when he asks, “What happened in Vegas?”

Tom flicks his lashes down, delicate wrist tucked under his chin, “Oh, you don’t want to hear about that…”

“Tom.”

He looks up again, and Ashlie looks so serious. It frightens him a little, admittedly. Ashlie is always full of jokes and laughs and nicknames. He levels their gaze and tastes sugar on his tongue, licking his dry lips as he shrugs, “Sex, gambling, the usual. Nothing special.”

“He hasn’t shown you or been near anything dangerous with you, has he?” Ashlie’s all but in front of him now, and Tom hates it, hates how it reminds him of his father and Frederick and he almost _cowers_ beneath his boss’ unrelenting stare.

But, he still lies. If his body betrays him, at least his tongue can still twist the truth, can still be his only salvation, “Of course not, he’s not _stupid_.” Tom is. “We went there and had a good time, that’s it. You’d believe me over him, right?”

Ashlie stares down at those wide blue eyes, the dark blond lashes, and nods. “Of course, Tommy-boy,” he whispers, finally moving back to his drink.

Tom lets out the softest of sighs and _really_ craves that cig.

“Try to stay away from his job, okay? Don’t get involved. Do what you do, and get out. He’s more dangerous than he seems.”

Tom feels his annoyance flare, “Yes, you said that,” he mutters, finishing his glass of water before standing, “I’ll see you later, okay?”

Ashlie waves him off, and as Tom’s going towards the door, hears him call from the kitchen, “Chris will contact you after I do! Goodnight!”

The door closes, and says ‘goodnight’ for him.

**

When he was out on the town with Chester one night, Chris called him, almost ten days after their last phone call.

He stared at his phone, sitting in the passenger seat of a silver BMW, and wondered if he should pick it up.

“Aren’t you going to answer it?” Chester blurted after the fifth ring, and Tom silenced the call.

“No, they’ll call back later,” he said, turning to look out of the window, clenching his jaw.

He felt antsy for the rest of the night, listening to his client drone on and on about something Tom wasn’t listening to. He just nodded and said ‘okay’ or ‘yeah’ when a pause in conversation called for it. He couldn’t stop thinking about Chris, and it was annoying. Thankfully, Chester didn’t have enough for an entire night, and Tom was free after dinner. His client just liked to look at and be seen with him, really. He was older than Chris and unmarried with no kids. Tom understood the loneliness, but he honestly didn’t want to help ease it.

Did that make him a bad person?

_No. You’re an escort. It’s your job to please them, not fix them._

Chester dropped him off a block from his apartment building, where they shared a quick kiss that tasted like dry white wine and steak sauce. Tom wiped his mouth furiously as he walked, his face twisted in mild disgust before he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket.

He scrambled for it, stopping a few feet from his apartment building, and saw Chris’ sleeping face on his screen.

He flicked his thumb over the screen and held it up to his ear, fishing for his keys next, “Chris?”

“Thomas,” Chris’ voice purrs in his ear, the background noise a strange mix of music and people talking, “Busy?”

“Not anymore,” Tom huffs, opening up the heavy door with one hand, “Just dinner with a client.”

“Hm,” Chris hums, absently, because he knows Tom does it on purpose. The Brit brings up that fact that he’s an escort with other clients often. Maybe it was because he tried to remind Chris that he wasn’t the only one, that he wasn’t special. Perhaps it was a way to protect himself from conflicting emotions.

Either way, he’s only reminded himself of the stark contrasts of Chris and his other clients. It wasn’t working in his favour.

“I talked to Ashlie,” Chris says, as Tom’s climbing the three stories, “He’s on board with it, which is a relief, as I already booked the jet and the lodge the day after I spoke to you.”

Tom laughs at that, the stupid little ‘ehehe’ laugh he can’t stop doing, “Why am I not surprised,” he hums, opening up his apartment and locking the door behind him.

“You made it home safe?” Chris asks softly, his voice dipping as it usually did when he was being genuine.

“Always do,” Tom sighs, scratching his scalp and heading to his bedroom, “I’m surprised you called. Usually you can’t.” Time zones restricted them, wherever Chris was.

“Usually,” Chris hums, “But, I’m back home for a bit.”

“And home is…?” Tom can’t help but ask, desperate for some kind of insight to Chris’ life, even after Vegas. He knows so little about the man he craves.

“I have two,” he chuckles softly, “I’m at one, for three days. And then I go get you.”

“I guess I better start packing,” Tom murmurs, opening up his closet to grab his largest suitcase and trying not to feel too dejected, “Will we be on the mountain a lot?”

“If you want, sure.”

“No,” Tom wrinkles his nose, “One day is good enough. I’d like to laze around inside by a fire, if I could.”

“We can certainly do that,” Chris murmurs, always willing to do whatever he can to make Tom happy.

_I only want to make you happy, Thomas._

His stomach churns and his heart melts at the memory of pillowy lips pressed to his own, a firm chest under his fingertips, and cinnamon cologne swimming around his head.

He feels dizzy, and leans against the wall to balance himself.

“Thomas?”

“I’m here,” he breathes, righting himself, “I’ll see you in three days.”

“Three days,” Chris says before the line goes dead, and Tom scrubs at his face with his hands.

**

The lodge in Switzerland is secluded, as large as a house and much more modern than Tom’s little apartment, with a remote-controlled fire place and memory foam mattress. It’s ten minutes from a small town, the name he can’t pronounce, and five from the ski lodge that’s a little further down the mountainside with a small trail leading the way through the trees. He’s grown accustomed to the blazing heat, so having familiar freezing weather wrap his bones in hoar makes him a little grumpy.

Yet, Chris’ smile is enough to shut out the biting wind that seems to stain his cheeks a cherry red.

And Chris does good on what he’s promised, bringing a tired Tom over his knee until he’s sobbing from it, his ass blooming a beautiful bright red, hot to the touch and Chris’ rough hand massages and pinches until Tom begs for it, shameless. He tries to swallow Chris down, gets his dick nice and wet for daddy, before he helps with the condom and he screams into the bed when he comes, clawing at the sheets, desperate to get away from the overstimulation that’s so good, it aches.

Afterwards, Chris holds him close, sticky with sweat and cum, and they kiss. He wraps his thin arms around wide shoulders, welcoming that heavy weight of muscle as the heat from the fireplace makes him warmer than he’s ever been. He drowns in Chris again, his kisses and touches and sweet words, murmuring about wanting to make him happy and how beautiful he is. It falls on deaf ears, because Tom’s out cold in moments, wrapped up until he’s dozing and then, asleep. He’s pliant as Chris handles him, moving him lazily onto his side, and he remembers feeling the tickling of Chris’ leg hair on the back of his calves before he slips into the darkness.

Ashlie’s warning rings in his ears while he sleeps, guns going off behind his lids, and he wakes in a cold sweat to sharp pain in his chest that disappears the moment he opens his eyes. He turns around and hides in Chris’ chest, heady with the scent of spice and sex. When he feels strong arms around him, he relaxes, but doesn’t sleep.

They have breakfast in bed, a platter of yogurt and sliced fruit, because neither of them know how to cook.

“I never had the time to learn,” Chris explains with a chuckle, dipping a strawberry into the creamy vanilla, “The most I can do is eggs. Boiled, fried, scrambled…I’m your man.”

Tom ‘ehehe’s as he plucks a green grape from a bunch, “Alright, tomorrow you can fry the eggs and I’ll pour the cereal with milk.”

They laugh together, and Tom feels a warmth in his chest, soothing away the pain from the dream.

Tom admires the outdoor scene from the big window; big, fat flakes of white settling onto the mountain and pine trees, the scent of them so strong and lulling once they’re actually out there. Bundled under layers, Tom shivers, like an angry Chihuahua that makes Chris chuckle and give his cold lips a warming kiss.

He develops wind burn on his cheekbones at the end of the day, something the goggles hadn’t prevented, and he’s grumpy when they return, even when Chris tries to warm him up in their little secluded lodge. Tom tries to resist, tries to cling to his grump, but Chris makes him laugh with cold, tickling fingers under his clothes and then he’s embarrassingly hard and Chris’ mouth is wet and hot on him. He’s warm in seconds, although his toes and fingers ache. Chris holds them in his hands afterwards, once he’s put three pairs of socks on his boy, whispering into their jumble of fingers and Tom tries to fight back a smile, but fails terribly, remembering the Aussie’s earlier frustration with his too-many layers as he tried to pull Tom’s clothes off for body warmth.

At the end of that day, they stay warm under the covers, naked and tangled together. Tom wakes in the middle of the night, his leg hoisted over Chris’ hips comfortably with his fingers tangled in blond strands, and his mouth pressed sweetly to his throat. He listens to the sound of him breathing, the steady rise and fall of his chest, and marvels at how he’s ended up here. Safe and warm in Chris’ arms, tucked away in a little lodge in the mountains. It’s a temporary sanctuary, but he’d rather have a few days with Chris than none at all, regardless of what Ashlie said, and will say.

They barely left the lodge the entire time; content to stay together and talk about anything but their pasts. It’s restricting, and it’s taking an obvious toll, but neither want to bring it up. Tom doesn’t want to push it anymore. If Chris doesn’t want to tell him something, he doesn’t have to. Secrets are normal. He’ll tell Tom when he wants to, if ever. And Chris knows that Tom’s had a rough life, he doesn’t prod around those never healing wounds. He asks about memories, though. The good ones, especially.

“When my best friend surprised me at school with cupcakes on my birthday,” Tom murmurs, hearing the crackling of the fire as he stares at the man across from him, “I was twelve, and she gave me four double chocolate cupcakes with vanilla bean frosting swirled over the tops. And they were delicious. I was so happy I cried…” He glanced down, biting the inside of his cheek, “My father and stepmother were busy working, they didn’t have time to give me a party. I don’t blame them anymore, though. I understand now more than ever.”

Chris doesn’t look at him with eyes of pity or sorrow. There’s nothing but raw affection and clear understanding in those cerulean blues. “That’s one thing I learned, too,” he murmurs, “The older you get, the more understanding and thoughtful you become.”

And he’s right. Tom still resents his father, but he’s burned up all of his energy hating him, too. His father was abusive, emotionally and physically a few times, but he probably saw it as punishment and although Tom would never forgive him for it, he was slowly understanding…

He didn’t like to talk about it.

“Is that why you’re so wise?” Tom hums, an eyebrow hitching higher than the other, “Because you’re so old?”

Chris grins, then he’s moving to try and pin Tom down, who’s too quick, and they end up wrestling. It begins with shrill little yelps from Tom, before it becomes quiet grunts and the sounds of lighthearted struggle, trying to pin one another and chuckling when they’re stuck. Tom finds himself sitting on Chris’ chest in the end, knees pinning the Aussie’s muscled shoulders down, hunched over him to hold his wrists to the bed.

They stare at one another, panting gently, and Chris tells him to move closer. He nuzzles between Tom’s legs and the Brit squeaks as they’re flipped, laughing and smiling as he spreads his legs to offer Chris a consolation prize that he readily accepts.

He adores him, it’s plain to see.

Even when Chris turns his back in the middle of a sentence and tells Tom to ‘scratch’.

Nose wrinkled, Tom would say, “No!” and they’d have the familiar argument of Tom _having_ to do it, because he’s Chris’ for now, he _has_ to please him. Sun-kissed skin is soft under his fingernails, but he still makes a face as Chris hums, like a big bear. It would be endearing if Tom wasn’t such a grump about it.

“Thank you,” Chris would say sweetly, turning around to press a quick kiss to Tom’s lips, surprising him as always.

He’ll never get used to the simple, spontaneous affections Chris regularly gives him. Nevertheless, he’ll mutter something indiscernible and wave it off, turning away to hide the pink on his cheeks. Chris’ sweetness always made up for everything he did that Tom didn’t like, even if it wasn’t much. He had the worst table manners when they weren’t in public, he made Tom scratch his back, and although he didn’t snore often, sometimes he did and it would wake Tom in the middle of the night. He’d taken to stuffing a pillow in Chris’ chest, pouting as he moved away, only to be pulled back to that strong chest and held tight. He never strayed too far from Chris’ reach, especially in public. He was feeling safer and safer in the Aussie’s presence despite his ignorance.

And he should have known to worry then.

**

Another two weeks pass with only the memory of the Aussie to keep him warm at night. The soft scrape of his stubbled jaw against his skin, sweet midnight kisses. He quietly mourns their loss and moves as if it never affected him, going through the motions of daily life. He hears from him twice, just simple texts to check up on him, and Tom says he’s fine.

Even if it doesn’t last.

He’s sure he could go without sex for the rest of his life at this point.

He can die either way, whether it be in Chris’ strong but gentle arms, or being trapped under this rutting man with tears building in his eyes and a sharp pain blossoming in his lower body. He’d say he wouldn’t care, but he’d be lying. He knew which fate he’d rather choose.

Finished, his client rolls off him, and Tom closes his eyes, not wanting tears to fall as he limps from the bed and towards the bathroom.

Even in privacy, he doesn’t cry. He stands there, leaning against the closed door, trembling and trying to ignore the burn spreading from his tailbone that’s crawling up his spine, feeling like it was settling in his hardening heart.

_He didn’t mean to do it. Not everyone likes lube._

There’s an empty pit in his stomach and Tom closes his eyes, trying to numb himself.

_This isn’t new. You’ve been through this before. Just be happy he wore a condom._

He tries to ignore the burning, the absolute raw _hate_ in his gut, but he imagines rough, gentle hands cupping his face and he knows it’s Chris – Chris keeps him safe and would never do this to him. He couldn’t do this to Tom. Chris was everything this wasn’t.

_He wouldn’t rape you, but he certainly could shoot you in the head._

If anything, he’d want to die by the hand of him, his Chris.

He stays in the bathroom for too long, curled up in the corner with bunched-up pieces of bloody toilet paper scattered next to him. His one-time client knocks on the door, asks if he’s okay, and Tom’s eyes flutter open.

“Tommy?”

_Don’t call me that._

“You okay?”

He flushes the pieces of toilet paper and stands on shaky legs, his arms trembling as his hands curl into fists. He stares at himself in the mirror, at his stupid golden curls and ruddy face, so fucking weak and unable to stand up for himself and he _snaps_.

It takes just an opening of a door for Tom to come undone, to bring his bony fist back and drive it into his client’s nose with a _crack_.

Even the sickening feeling of it break under his fist isn’t enough to satisfy him, but he bolts like a bat out of hell. He grabs his clothes and phone and runs out of the hotel room, his heart bursting through his chest as he gets to the elevator and has to _wait_. He manages to put his pants and shoes on when he hears both the elevator and room door open, his client’s face covered in blood as he peeks out of his room.

He gets away, somehow. He pulls his shirt on and calls Ashlie, his lip trembling as his eyes begin to water again. It rings six times, then goes to voicemail. He calls again, same thing.

On the third try, he picks up with an annoyed “ _What?_ ”

It’s Chris.

He called Chris, by accident. Or unconsciously.

He hiccups, closing his eyes as he covers his mouth, his breathing harsh as he hears a less annoyed, “Hello…? Who is this?”

Chris was constantly changing his cell phone, paranoid about being tracked and bugged, and never saved contacts in his phone because there was no reason to. But, he always text Tom to tell him his new number.

“Chris,” he whispers, grinding his teeth together.

“Thomas?” All annoyance or anger is gone from his voice, surprise replacing it, “What’s wrong? Are you crying?”

“No,” he hisses, his brows furrowed and face twisted into disgust, “I…I was trying to call Ashlie. I dialled you on accident.”

Chris doesn’t buy it. He knows when his boy is fine, and he’s not. “What happened?” He asks, his voice soft over the line.

“I…I…” He can’t say it. He fucking can’t, “A client…”

The silence is unsettling.

“Who.” Chris asks, his voice low and dangerous, and Tom can already see the blood on Chris’ hands.

“It doesn’t matter,” his voice hitches as he goes through the elevator door, rushing out of the building despite the burn in his lower back, “I just--”

“Thomas, you fucking tell me who you just saw, or I’ll find out myself.”

He stops outside, trying to breathe as he leans against a brick wall, tears swarming the city lights in his eyes. Chris means it, his voice left no room for argument. He’ll track the guy down himself, he has the means to. Quietly, he whispers his client’s name, tasting something bitter on his tongue, and describes him to Chris.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” Chris murmurs, his voice like smooth velvet, telling him to get home safe before the line goes dead and Tom feels a weight come off his chest.

Chris will take care of him.

\--

Ashlie’s unsettled to hear that Chris took care of the client, and Tom can’t help but to feel the same way. What would Chris do to that man?

“Why did you phone him first?” Ashlie probably didn’t mean to sound so accusing.

Tom shrugs, sniffling, “I thought it was you.”

“If someone finds out what happened, we’re fucked, you know that?”

“Of course I do.” Tom mutters, no venom in his voice as he stares at his boss across the room, in that same stupid chair at the same stupid table.

“So you went and did it anyway?!” Ashlie slams his hand on the table as he yells, and Tom jumps, squeezing his eyes shut. He wants to yell back, wants to point out that Ashlie’s never been raped, he’s never had to fend himself at his most vulnerable, but he doesn’t. Because he knows how it will end, and Tom’s not really in the mood to be hit again.

He looks away and wraps his arms around himself, setting his jaw as he mutters, “Just call the doctor already.”

Begrudgingly, Ashlie grabs his phone and calls Tom’s doctor, asking for a rape kit and HIV check.

**

He doesn’t have another client for a week. He’s clean, thankfully, but his anger remains. His hatred. It’s so fresh in his mind, consuming him slowly and steadily. He ignores calls, texts. Chris doesn’t contact him the entire time.

But when he does, he receives a picture from a new number, and it makes his stomach churn.

He can’t recognize the client, his face is so swollen.

He deletes the message without responding, an unlit cigarette dangling loosely between his lips as he curls up onto his balcony chair. It was done, and there was nothing to worry about.

Nothing at all.

\--

“Did you get the picture?”

“You’re sick, you know that?”

“It had to be done, baby.”

“…why?”

“He hurt you. You came to me, near tears. I had to do something.”

He bites on his fingertips, eyes downcast as he cradles his phone to his ear, timid as he asks, “What did you do?”

“I had one of my guys track him down in L.A., and when he found him, he kept him for me. I could have had one of my guys to do it, but this was…personal. I can’t let someone else do something like this for me.”

Tom was personal. No one, not _one_ client, had ever done that for him. No one in his entire life had ever stood up for Tom before, and here’s Chris, a man he never knew existed until two months ago, going to personally deal with the man that had harmed his boy.

Chris had nearly killed the client, beat him to a bloody pulp and dumped him near the closest hospital with a single warning: don’t touch him again - don’t even fucking _think_ about him if you know what’s good for you _._ Tom didn’t want to know what other unsavoury things Chris had done to that man. Instead, he thanked him quietly, and agreed to another trip because he was a masochist. Ashlie was growing suspicious of them, but Tom said nothing about it, knowing that Chris would find out himself if Ashlie did have anything to say to him.

Surprisingly, he didn’t. Ashlie just agreed to the trip and told Tom over the phone, his voice pensive and thoughtful: “Be careful.”

He was beginning to understand the warning. Chris, like Tom, had a temper. He knew that already, but the incident with the client only emphasized that. If anyone showed any disrespect to Chris or those he deemed important…

Tom shuddered in his plane seat, staring out at the blue sky and white clouds from the tiny window.

“Cold, sweetheart?”

Tom shook his head and glanced over at the Aussie, taking in the sight of him. His hair was dyed a lighter blond, almost honey in colour. He’d shaved, which made him look much younger, and cleaner. He was still incredibly handsome, though. He always was.

“Just a shiver,” he shrugs, turning back to the window as a hand settles heavily on his knee like a brand.

_You know you can’t keep lying to yourself like this._

But, he can try. Because what else does he have?

\--

There’s an easy silence as he dozes on the sunny deck, the soft movements of the boat lulling him to a gentle sleep, hearing the waves lap gently at the sides. He hears the faint conversation across the yacht where Chris is doing a deal, in what sounds like English this time. The Barcelona sun is warm on his skin, making him bronze as he lounges and waits, until he's woken by Chris suddenly.

He opens his eyes slowly, lazily. It takes him a moment to adjust before he can see, and his breath is stolen from his chest. The sun is reflecting the ocean waves and it bounces onto Chris, making him look like an absolute dream. Blue eyes stare down at him softly, the newly dyed honey blond hair rustling in the wind, the thin green t-shirt parted at the top to show off a defined collarbone.

“How’d it go?” Tom asks softly, hearing the other yacht start up next to them.

“Good,” Chris hums, sitting but hovering over the Brit, possessive and protective, “A good deal. She’s a respectable business partner.”

“She?” Tom’s eyebrows raise, quietly surprised.

“Yes, she,” Chris chuckles, not giving anything more, and Tom doesn’t prod. Instead, the drug lord gives his chin a gentle pinch, and Tom swallows thickly, his nerves alight and stomach in knots, feeling soothed by the man’s very presence but also set on edge knowing that such dangerous hands that pet him so softly can kill just as easily. He’s scared and comforted at the same time; dangling from a single thread, ready to snap and send him reeling into a frightening bliss that he may not be able to escape.

Because he’s falling in love.


	13. Nothing's Going to Hurt You, Baby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“All at once we were madly, clumsily, shamelessly, agonizingly in love with each other; hopelessly, I should add, because that frenzy of mutual possession might have been assuaged only by our actually imbibing and assimilating every particle of each other's soul and flesh.”_  
>  Vladimir Nabokov, _Lolita_

It’s different from then on. Agonizingly different.

He spends more time with Chris, jets off with him from time to time, from the baking sun of Mexico to the crazy cities of Japan. They party together late at night in the warm breeze, Tom smiling secretly over a shared glass of wine as Chris tells a hilarious story to a group of men with their girls and boys. They don’t pay any attention to him; he’s just an escort to them, Tom is nothing more than the background music playing on the patio, probably offering Chris some company for a price. He’ll hang back, watch everyone at every party they attend together, watching his drug lord lover weave through the crowds with a handsome smile and charming words.

And later, he’ll coax Chris aside, just out of the way, so he can kiss him. It’s all heavy breathing and heavier touches, fingers under his shirt, touching his collarbone, stomach, thighs; making him dizzy until he manages to get them up to the room.

They know their acts and they play them well. They’re a great team together and neither can deny it, falling in together easily in public as escort and client. Ashlie still warns him, becoming more and more hesitant to let Tom take a trip with his old friend. _He’s bad news, Tommy._ He doesn’t care. He’s blinded by the strength of his own feelings, of Chris’. He doesn’t know what Chris feels for him but it’s definitely something strong.

In fact, he becomes irritable — grumpy, as the weeks turn into months.

He knows this is too good to be true, and what’s really frustrating is that he’s so hypocritical. He’s disgusted by Sonja’s attempts of attaching herself to him, yet here he is, trying to grab hold of Chris and never let go, too scared to know what will happen if he does. And Chris, that irritable prick, is all about his work, he’s practically married and bonded for life to it. Just like Tom.

They can never be each other’s, it doesn’t work that way, and it never will.

And because Tom’s become so pissy, they fight. All it really takes is one small slip of the tongue and they’re nearly at each other’s throats, snapping and baring teeth. Their tempers flare like a lighted match, the simple spark igniting them into an argument that’s just as passionate as their sex, and would sometimes end with Tom’s angry spit of “ _Te adoro siempre_ ” before one of them is stalking away with spiteful mumbles.

Still, he can’t let him go.

Not long after, one would return to the other, and would be greeted with either a small kiss or gentle pinch to his chin. They didn’t stay mad for too long, after all. They could barely stand being away for a minute, and they know it’s nothing serious, petty things they’re not really angry about. It’s their inner frustrations coming to surface -- or rather, it’s everything personal and private they’re too scared to share. They’re peeking into one another without actually revealing anything, and it’s irritating beyond belief.

The one time Chris had joked about ‘making love’, Tom had nearly slapped him. He told him not to joke around about shit like that. And Chris, smart in picking his fights, had quietly agreed and never spoke of it again. They never made love. They couldn’t. It was something taboo despite their budding feelings.

And Tom is never not at Chris’ side at meetings these days. His lovely little boy, sitting with Clover or off to the side, out of sight. He picks up on some simple Spanish and sees how Chris works, his methods never the same and always differ between buyers.

“You always watch me so intensely,” Chris teases him after another successful deal, a delighted grin on his face as he wraps his arm around Tom’s shoulders and presses a firm kiss to his lips, like he always does when he’s happy. Tom’s squished into his chest and his face is tilted up, trying not to smile. Chris kisses him as if they were in a romantic classic.

He pushes him away after a moment, but Chris doesn’t go far, keeping his arm around the back of Tom’s neck as he stares down at him happily. Tom tries not to blush, muttering, “I’m only trying to learn the secrets of the trade. My staring has nothing to do with your muscles.”

Chris grins, smug and undeniably happy, his pearly white teeth showing just a little when he tries not to smile as much as he wants to, “Is that so?” He hums, his eyes crinkling in the corners, “Perhaps I should consider a partner in crime then, hmm?”

The thought secretly thrills him, but he doesn’t let it show on his face. Instead, he smiles and kisses Chris’ neck, right on his pulse, and lets the Aussie go once he goes to debrief with Clover.

**

His phone rings while he’s eating lunch alone, and where he expects Chris, it’s Daphne.

“You’ve been quite busy lately. I’m surprised you picked up at all.”

Was this her idea of guilt?

Admittedly, Tom did feel a little bad. Daphne is the client he’s known the longest, and it’s been over a month since he’s last seen her. He barely manages the odd text these days.

“I’m considering running away,” he hums into the receiver, placing his spoon back into his cooling soup, “I’m going to take all of my money and a suitcase and I want you to come with me.”

She laughs softly, the sound like honey in his ear, “My most important things can’t fit into one suitcase,” she replies, and the line is silent for a moment, before she says, “I met someone.”

Tom’s eyebrows go up as his heart stops, genuinely surprised, “Oh?”

“He’s lovely. Small, like you, but shorter. He’d be about your height in three inch heels. He’s a scholar and knows business, I think he’s going for an MBA. We like to talk, even after sex. Isn’t that crazy?”

“Unthinkable,” Tom murmurs, eyeing the white ceramic of his bowl, feeling a little disconnected with the moment.

Daphne hums in agreement, “We go out and enjoy dinners together. Remember that nice French place we went to? That’s our favourite place. He loves the _Escargots à la Bourguignonne._ He’s soft-spoken and shy, always polite, even in the bedroom.”

“Does he let you fuck him?” He asks, unable to help himself.

“Yes. Not often, and he was weary at first, but I treat him good enough that he’s beginning to want it.”

Daphne had always been a skilled woman, in many ways. She’s assertive, always, and isn’t afraid of anything. She’s the opposite of Tom and maybe that’s why she’s falling for this guy.

His heart is suddenly heavy, and he understands why she’s been trying to reach him.

“Rose?”

“Yes?” Tom murmurs, soup forgotten.

“Don’t be sad. I’m not worth it. What we had was fun and exciting, admittedly expensive, but…you know this wouldn’t last. Not until one of us quit. We can’t go on like this forever.”

It hurts more than he’d expected. Still, he won’t let his voice waiver, won’t let it shake, “Of course.”

He wants to say goodbye and get it over with, but she speaks up, “Listen to me, Tom. Stop this. You’re worth more than any amount of money. You’re sweet as sugar and I don’t want you to get hurt.”

_It’s too late._

She continues, “Find someone who will love you, and care for you. Someone who is willing to protect and support you for as long as you want them to. Be selfish with love, alright? There isn’t much left in the world, so take it and keep it for as long as you can. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

He closes his eyes and swallows around the lump in his throat, a shaky little smile on his lips, “Thank you, Daphne.”

“Goodnight, Tom.”

He places his phone down onto the table and buries his face into his hands, trying to will away the hurting of his heart.

**

Christmas is lonely, as usual. Every client is busy with family – even Sonja isn’t trying to force him to family gatherings where everyone wears stuffy, itchy sweaters and drinks spiked egg nog. Christmas Eve is spent drinking half a bottle of strong wine and watching various Christmas movies, sleeping it off, and the other half is finished on Christmas Day. The only good thing about it is when Chris texts him, ‘Merry Christmas, sweetheart’ from a new number, and Tom manages to reply the same before passing out on his couch while clinging to the empty bottle.

When he wakes later in the day, he doesn’t wonder about family or clients. Instead, he goes for a long walk and smokes until he gets a headache. L.A. isn’t fun anymore. The beaches and sun have lost their novelty, and Tom’s world simply fades to different shades of grey as depression settles deep within him. Holidays always did that.

‘Merry Xmas, Tommy. How about a Christmas bonus?’ Ashlie teases him over text, and Tom glares at a jolly Santa that passes him, wishing him a Merry Christmas, Ho-Ho-Ho.

‘Merry Xmas, and fuck you.’ He replies, and is thankful that Ashlie simply finds his response amusing more than anything else.

In January - early January - he finally sees Chris again, in the hotel they had met in just over half a year ago. It’s crazy to think back to that day, how much has changed, and still is. It makes his head spin.

But none of it compares to the sight of Chris in his street clothes, barely hiding a smile as the elevator doors open and Tom begins to walk down the hall towards him. They say nothing, just stare, Tom smirking and flicking his eyes down to seem coy despite the fluttering in his stomach.

“I tried to get the same room, but it didn’t work out,” Chris says as he closes the door behind Tom.

“Too sappy for me, anyway,” Tom shrugs, not even fully turned before Chris is kissing him. He melts into it, leaning against that strong chest and letting stronger arms hold him up.

It’s like a breath of fresh air, and he feels alive again.

“I’ve felt so lonely lately,” he admits quietly, after a hurried bout of sex and a vegetarian pizza is ordered, when he’s back in Chris’ arms.

“It’s the holidays,” Chris murmurs, nosing at his hairline, like he’s so apt to do, “I get the same way.”

Tom glances up at him then, and Chris looks down, meeting Tom’s gaze. He’s telling the truth.

“You don’t go back to Australia?” He murmurs, his brows furrowed gently, “Or Columbia?”

The Aussie shakes his head, “I haven’t seen my family in years. It’s too dangerous to go back, especially for the holidays. People are waiting for me back there, and they aren’t friends.” It’s as simple as that.

Chris knows why Tom doesn’t go back home, and doesn’t ask.

They talk for a while longer, about something trivial like their least hated Christmas movie, until the pizza arrives and the whole situation gives Tom such a strong sense of nostalgia that he interrupts Chris’ eating to kiss him. He tastes like pizza grease and marinated tomatoes, but it’s worth it, his heavy heart feeling lighter after it all. Chris knew how to cheer him up, even when he didn’t mean to.

“When’s your birthday?” The Aussie asks, returning to the bed after placing the pizza on the desk.

“February,” Tom sighs, feeling sleepy with his full stomach.

“How old will you be? Eighteen?”

Tom shoots him a look, “Twenty-one, asshole.”

Chris just hums as he finally gathers Tom in his arms again, and the Brit cuddles into him. He’s the only client Tom will cuddle after sex, but he doesn’t dwell on it. He had always hated the stickiness of it, but now he craves it.

“Let’s do something, yeah?”

He breathes a soft, “Yeah,” and closes his eyes, allowing himself to be content.

“I’ll take you out to dinner, wherever you want.”

He smirks against Chris’ skin, “You always take me wherever I want.”

Chris chuckles again, “Fine, you greedy little thing. I’ll take you anywhere in the world, and _then_ you can choose the restaurant.”

“I still fail to see the difference between this and what we usually do,” Tom laughs, ‘ehehe’ and all, and Chris joins him until they’re holding one another and laughing together.

It’s so sweet.

“I will also buy you a gift. How about that?”

Tom thinks it over, tries to remember during one of their many trips if Chris had bought him a gift, and he hasn’t. “Very well,” he hums, “I will be satisfied with that.” Even though he’s more than satisfied with just this, laying together and laughing.

“‘ _Very well_ ’,” Chris mocks playfully, and Tom pinches his nipple sharply, laughing at the hiss he receives.

**

A lonely week passes.

A New Year’s kiss from Sonya, lacking the meaning he wants from someone else.

Two more weeks, filled with meaningless sex and empty promises that leave a stale taste in his mouth.

_You’re getting ahead of yourself._

A few more days, then they jet off to Paris, because Tom’s always wanted to go and the thought of sharing crepes with Chris is too good to pass up.

It’s a lovely little birthday, he has to admit. They take a late flight and Tom falls sleep in the white leather chair, his head lulled against Chris’ shoulder. He wakes when he feels Chris take his hand, but he doesn’t move, just keeps his breathing even as he lets his limp hand be gently squeezed and held by the rougher digits of the man beside him. He hasn’t held anyone’s hand in a long time.

He barely resists the urge to squeeze Chris back.

When he wakes, Chris’ hand is gone, and he’s greeted by the distant sight of the Eiffel tower through the morning fog.

“We can go later today,” Chris murmurs into his ear, both peering out of the little window of the jet.

Tom turns to him, wide eyes met with a curious gaze, and nods.

Their room is very, very quaint. It’s small but cozy, with the tiniest balcony surrounded by iron rails and large window-like doors. He pulls them open and gazes out at the beautiful rustic city, gazing over the rooftops with a dreamy sigh.

And when Chris joins him, leaning against the windowpane and looking out, it’s everything Tom’s ever wanted.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, turning to the Aussie, and Chris glances down at him, fondness ever so clear in his eyes. He always thanks Chris for their little trips, for everything this man does for him, and the Aussie always responds the same way.

“You’re welcome, sweetheart,” he murmurs back, and Tom steps into his space to lean against him, resting his head against his shoulder, and smiling softly as he feels Chris’ hand on his hip.

“Shall we eat?”

“What else do we do?” Tom teases, yelping at the smack his bottom receives in reply.

\--

“Do you like escargots?”

Tom makes a face, “Not particularly. My one client liked them.”

Chris glances up from his menu, “’Liked’?”

He swallows thickly, staring at Chris with wide eyes before glancing down, “She quit seeing me.”

“What happened?”

He doubts Chris really cares, if anything he’s probably ecstatic, but Tom appreciates his fake interest in his boy’s clients, “She fell in love, actually. With a boy who enjoys escargots.” He folds his napkin on the table, clenching his jaw as he recalls the phone call with Daphne.

“Do you miss her?”

Tom glances up, brows furrowing a little as he tries to place Chris’ tone. It’s something in between curiosity, resentment, and jealousy, but his face is blank as he stares at Tom, awaiting an answer.

“I miss her money,” Tom’s lip quirks a little, but he knows his eyes are a little sad and Chris purses his lips. “I mean, she was one of my earlier clients. I used to see her often, but not near the end. Ever since I began seeing you.”

“Did I…?”

“No, no,” Tom shakes his head and looks out to the street, wondering how long it took to make a fucking crepe, “She went because of that guy. I was just sad because…” He trails off, brows furrowing again as he thinks, eyeing the empty table in front of him, “I don’t know why I was sad, actually. Maybe because I thought she would stay, even though I knew it was impossible. She was always just…there. I live in a world of one-night-stands, and to have someone I kind of knew just disappear with a single phone call is…unsettling.”

He looks up at Chris, fearing some kind of pity, but he sees none of it in his handsome face. He looks sad, and weirdly, understanding.

Thankfully, their breakfast arrives. He says a quiet ‘ _merci’_ to the waiter and meets Chris’ gaze again, noticing the distant look there.

“Chris…”

No, he’s not distant. He’s staring, just over his shoulder.

His voice softens, an unsure look crossing his features, “Chris…?”

“Hmm?” Chris hums, flicking his eyes back to him and offering the Brit a tight smile, “Let’s eat, yeah?”

“Yeah…” But Tom’s brows remain furrowed as he begins to cut into his crepe, wondering who Chris had been staring at— _is_ staring at, again. He’s glancing now, when you’re trying to figure out if you know someone without openly staring.

It takes all of his patience to not turn around in his chair and stare, too.

“Can we go to the Eiffel Tower after this?” He asks, cutting into his crepe and watching the Nutella ooze out from under his knife.

And where he expects an ‘of course’ or ‘sure’, Chris says, “Maybe.”

Something’s wrong. An alarm goes off in Tom’s head, and he knows it has something to do with what or who Chris is staring at.

Because as much as he hates to admit it, Chris always takes every opportunity he can to spoil him.

“Okay,” he murmurs, taking the first bite of his breakfast. His worry makes it tasteless.

Chris’ glances are fewer as time goes on, until he’s barely acknowledging the thing just over Tom’s shoulder and he’s the Chris he knows when they’re at a deal. His expressions aren’t as open, his spine is straight, and his smiles are so soft they don’t completely reach his eyes.

Tom hates it.

So, he tries to nudge Chris playfully with his foot, like he has in the past, but the drug lord gives him a look and Tom stops, feeling like a scolded child.

Their chatting is minimum, and it makes Tom’s mood turn sour. This is his _birthday_ , not some awkward meal with a stranger. They know each other, have flown half the world together, why is Chris acting this way?

When their waiter comes over and asks how things are, Tom places his napkin over his plate and slides it over, not saying a word. He’s pissed off but still worried, wondering what’s going on Chris’ head to keep him so distracted.

“Are you done?” Chris asks, his brows furrowed.

“With the meal? Yes.”

So, Chris slides his plate over, too. They both barely ate, and now Tom knows something is really wrong. They always finish a meal together, even if they have to help each other out. It’s the reason Tom’s pants are getting a little snug around the waist.

“Check, please,” Chris mutters, searching for his wallet, and the waiter rushes off.

They stare at each other, and Tom clenches his jaw as his arms fold over his chest, looking away.

Chris doesn’t have to ask anything, he just knows. He gives Tom an apologetic look, but the Brit’s too proud, so he turn his cheek.

\--

The second they’re back on the street, Chris is on his phone, texting and calling, speaking in Spanish. Even with the little bit he’s picked up, Tom can’t decipher what’s being said in such a quick tongue. Chris is relaxed, although his eyes are darting almost everywhere as they walk, making sure Tom is within arm’s reach every minute or so.

Tom feels himself becoming more and more alarmed as time passes, until Chris ends the phone call, finally looking something other than passive, and there’s anger etched all over his handsome features.

“What?” Tom asks, his voice soft, but his expression is hard.

“I’ll tell you later,” the Aussie murmurs, and Tom wants to screech, “We have to get back to the hotel first, alright?”

A terse ‘fine’ finds its way through Tom’s clenched teeth, and he says no more. Chris is angry and he knows better than to prod.

\--

“It was men from another ring.”

Chris goes over to the window and all but slams the doors shut, locking them tight and pulling the curtains over it, shrouding them in darkness.

“How are you so sure?” He asks, brows furrowed as he watches his lover begin to gather their suitcases.

“Clover checked it out for me, confirmed it, and he got us another room. He’s checking it out further with a few others.”

It was Vegas all over again, except this time, Tom didn’t argue or pout. He grabs his bag and follows Chris, looking down the hall as they went straight to the stairwell.

“Wait, Clover’s here?” He asks, after they go up four flights.

Chris spares him a glance as he unlocks their new room, looking around before letting Tom in, “Of course he is. I can’t go anywhere without him.”

“Except Switzerland,” Tom hums, placing his bags into the closet, looking around the identical room. The only difference was that they faced the west now, which would admittedly look pretty once the day came to an end.

“Except Switzerland.” Chris huffs, locking the door behind them and going over to the window. He makes sure it’s locked before shutting the curtains, leaving them in filtered sunlight.

Tom sits on the bed, crossing his thin arms as he watches Chris move about the room, an endless thrum of energy.

“Do you wanna fuck?” He asks, wondering if it would help.

“No, baby.”

He nearly pouts again, but shrugs and stands, walking over to Chris, who stops his pacing and stares at Tom wearily, wondering what he’s doing.

“So, what? We’re quarantined until the word is given?” He asks, smoothing a tiny wrinkle in Chris’ shirt.

“Essentially.”

There were worse ways to spend his birthday, he supposed. Cabin fever with his drug lord lover.

They undress, naturally. Slowly and separately, not caressing exposed skin until they’re climbing into the bed and settling down, Tom pressing his lips to Chris’ muscled arm and staring up at him.

“Happy Birthday, sweetheart,” Chris murmurs, a small smile finally tugging at his lips as he reaches to brush the pad of his thumb over Tom’s cheekbone, so sweetly that Tom leans into it with a sigh.

Yes, this wasn’t bad.

“Have you been to Paris before?” Tom asks softly, closing his eyes as Chris’ thumb brushes down the bridge of his nose.

“Once or twice,” Chris murmurs, eyes settling on pink lips as he places his thumb over them.

“Alone?” Tom parts his lips.

“Sort of—ow, Thomas!” Chris chuckles as he pulls his hand back, rubbing at the pad of his bitten thumb.

“I bite your thumb at you, sir.”

“You’re ridiculous,” he smiles, and Tom buries his face in the side of Chris’ chest. He wants to ask if he can smoke in the room, but it reminds him of Leon and when they used to smoke in the forbidden bedroom, so he doesn’t.

“Are you sleepy?” Chris asks, and Tom nods, even though he isn’t.

“Sleep, princess.”

“’m not a princess,” Tom murmurs, his nose pressed into a firm pectoral.

Chris doesn’t say anything, just thumbs at the bone of Tom’s shoulder until he slips into a small doze.

\--

He likes to think that Chris will always be there for him, regardless of everything and all of the nothing he knows about him – about each other. So, when he hears shuffling and footsteps going towards the door, Tom jumps out of bed half-asleep and reaches out for him, grabbing the sleeve of Chris’ shirt in a tight fist.

“Hey, hey,” Chris said softly, grabbing Tom’s wrists as the Brit leans against him, “What’re doing? Go back to bed.”

“Where’re you going?” He asks around his accent, brows drawn together as he blinks away the fuzziness in his eyes.

“Clover’s outside, he wants to talk.”

His mouth is so dry. “Why?”

“The men, from the other ring.”

Chris is answering him, where he’d once been vague. It settles his nerves, more than he’d expected.

“Okay,” he murmurs, letting go of the Aussie, but Chris holds him for another moment, looking at him.

“You’re okay, sweetheart?”

He nods.

“You look frightened.”

He whispers, “I am.”

That doesn’t please Chris, not at all.

He looks bothered, pensive, before he presses a quick kiss to Tom’s forehead, “I’ll be just outside. Knock if you need me.”

“Alright.”

Once the door closes and he hears muffled Spanish, Tom returns to the bed, curling up into himself as he closes his eyes. His anxiety’s flared.

_It was just a dream – a nightmare. You’re fine. Chris is fine. Nothing’s wrong._

Nothing but everything is wrong, it seems. They’re growing closer, so close that Tom’s getting to that stage of clinging. It was that stage that drove Frederick away.

What if he drives Chris away, too?

He squeezes his eyes shut, not wanting to think about it. Chris is his main source of comfort and security, his only source of happiness, it’s normal to get attached so quickly…

But is it love? Affection? Is it some sickly obsession that he’s masking with rose-coloured lens? If so, Chris had the same obsession, and Tom wasn’t one to curb another’s guilty pleasure. He’d let it happen. Let it consume them both, until they were rotten to the core. If not already.

Is Chris just as damaged as him? His eyes slide over to the door, eyeing the bottom where there’s an inch gap and he can see two pairs of feet. What will he continue to discover about this man? Will he open up even more? Will Tom still love him after it all?

_If it is love._

“Thomas?”

“Bed,” he murmurs, watching Chris come back into the room quietly, locking the door firmly behind him, “How’s things..?”

His lover takes a deep breath, and releases a big exhale as he makes his way to the bed, “We’re going back tomorrow. It’s not safe right now, especially for you.” He takes a seat and Tom inches closer, until there’s a rough hand in his hair, smoothing golden curls down. He would purr, if he could.

“I’m sorry.” Chris murmurs, a thin line between his brows.

He reaches up to smooth it away, “For what?”

“For always putting you in danger. Every time we’re together, you are never safe.”

“I am safe,” Tom frowns, “I’m with you.”

Chris frowns in return, his hand on Tom’s forehead to push his curls back, “I cannot protect you from everything, Thomas.”

“I know you can. And will.” He won’t say why.

Because Chris already knows. He stares down at the Brit, his eyes softening despite the sadness lingering there, “I cannot protect you when I’m not with you. I can’t protect you from a bullet, or grenade.”

He gives the older man a look, “A _grenade_ , Chris?”

 “Especially in Columbia,” he smoothes Tom’s curls again, watching them bounce back into place, “You’re in the most danger when you’re with me. I hope you know that.”

“Of course I do,” Tom makes a face, “Stop trying to push me away, Chris. It didn’t work the first time around.”

Finally, the Aussie’s tense shoulders slump and he gives a soft, breathy chuckle that’s mostly air blowing from his nose. It’s pure disbelief, and he stares down at Tom like he did that first night they met, like he was some kind of wonder of the world.

Except this time, it doesn’t make him want to run. It draws him in, wants Chris closer, makes him crave the older man’s skin between his teeth and on his tongue.

It’s what makes a breathy “Daddy…” leave his parted lips. And then Chris knows.

He takes his time worshipping his birthday boy, kissing every inch that he can reach, from the webbing between his fingers to the pink shell of his ear. He touches everywhere, rouses Tom to a plump thickness, before peppering kisses to the sticky tip. Tom arches, makes noises in the back of his throat as he closes his eyes, knowing full well who is doing this to him, who can only make him feel this way.

Unlike the rest, he puts up a fight to spread his legs, wanting it a little rough. Chris forces them apart with a low growl, and Tom preens with a sigh. He’ll never get enough of this man, and he hopes Chris feels the same. He comes with his knees close to his ears and Chris wriggles his tongue deeper, feeling his boy shudder around his climax, spilling against his chest.

“Happy Birthday to me,” Tom breathes once his legs are lowered, and then Chris laughs.

\--

The sun’s set an hour ago, the room had been bathed in orange, and Chris admitted to its beauty. They’re lying together, kissing and touching idly, like they had all the time in the world. They did what lovers did best. Nothing.

“Sunsets and sunrises are one of my favourite things,” Tom murmurs, wishing for a cigarette.

“What else are your favorites?” Chris asks, and Tom tells him about cigarettes, movies, food, and now, wine. It’s a very limited list because Tom can’t really find anything good anymore, in terms of what he likes.

And because he’s tired of being cautious, he asks, “Have you ever been in love?”

It takes Chris a while to answer, and Tom doesn’t look at him. He stares at his chest and draws invisible patterns into his skin, pressing his ear to the thumping heartbeat under flesh and ribs and sinew. It’s beating fast, for the first time, and Tom finally glances up.

Their eyes meet, and Tom’s finger stops. He’s going to answer him. There’s an obvious hesitance, but then the Aussie is parting his lips and struggling to find words.

“I…” Chris swallows around a dry throat, his tongue flicking over his lips as his brows come together, like he’s struggling to get it out, “I had a fiancée, who was pregnant with our child - years ago, before I got too deep into this.”

Tom’s shock snares his tongue, rendering him speechless.

“She…used me for my money and growing power, but I was too blind to see it. I loved her, deeply, almost more than myself. I loved her so much it was sickening. I loved that we were going to have a family. It was my chance to finally turn things around for myself, to get out of this toxic business, but…when I found out, what she really loved, I demanded her to leave. I was disgusted by her, I couldn’t even _look_ at her.”

He can see tears in those heartbreaking eyes, the faint glimmer of shrouded city lights catching in unshed tears.

“She got back at me by having an abortion.”

It’s then that Chris’ tears fall freely, and Tom doesn’t hesitate to kiss them away, wiping his drug lord’s wet cheeks with his thumbs as he stares at Chris, who cries quietly in his arms, like he has never had the time to mourn his losses.

Chris had a chance to start over. He had a fiancée, and a child on the way. He had what he thought was love. He had everything he needed to turn his life around for the better, and it was all a lie. She didn’t love him. She loved what he had and who she wanted him to be, and it broke Tom’s heart.

They say nothing, for a long, long time.

_Is it worth it?_

He presses their foreheads together, closing his eyes tightly as he thumbs at Chris’ cheekbones, wiping away the last of his hot tears, and promises himself to never hurt Chris like this. He only wants to make him stronger, to build him up, to be the one he could confide in and trust completely. He wants all of the ugliness Chris thinks unlovable, wants the rawest form of this man, all to himself.

_Yes. It is._

He moves closer, pressing himself against Chris, and all but wraps his arms around the Aussie’s head and shoulders, cradling him to his chest as if to protect him. Chris holds him around the waist, pressing his cheek against Tom’s breastbone, and breathes steadily in the scent of his boy.

“I’d run away before,” Tom murmurs, after a long silence, “Back in London. Dozens of times, but I always went back. I was too scared to leave for good, until I did. I found a sugar daddy by change and he kept me until I clung to him so hard, he had to shake me off. He sold me to Ashlie, and now I’m an escort….” He trails off, petting honey blond hair as he eyes the darkness with sad eyes, “I haven’t seen any of my family since I moved, and I’m still not sure if I miss them. Or if I ever will.”

It’s not much, but it’s all he can offer.

Chris squeezes him, hard enough that Tom almost wheezes, but his voice murmurs a muffled, “You might.”

“Do you?” He asks softly, and finally Chris moves back an inch to breathe properly and look up at his boy, who’s all wide blue eyes and ruddy cheeks.

“All the time,” he murmurs, his voice rough from crying, and Tom presses his thumbs to the hot skin of Chris’ eyelids.

“Do you miss me?” There’s nothing vain about it this time. All superficial questions are gone, leaving them with the raw truth they’ve never had to face, with soft voices and careful tones.

“All the _fucking_ time.”

Tom’s so, so relieved. He thumbs at the soft dip of Chris’ temple as they breathe together, knowing that it’s okay to do this, to be vulnerable, even just for a bit. It’s only them, and they’re taking a huge risk together.

They sleep tangled up in one another, unwilling to let the other go.

**

The fourteenth day of the second month, just after three a.m.

_‘Happy Valentine’s Day, sweetheart. C.’_

He smiles down at the dimmed screen, keeping it close to his thigh so to read the text and make sure Richard doesn’t see it. That wouldn’t go over too nicely, no.

He remembers idly when the truth had disgusted him and made him taste bile. In a way, it still does, but not for the same reasons. He doesn’t have to lie to Chris, because he’s transparent to him. He hates it as much as he appreciates it. It makes his life just a little easier, but also much harder.

Richard turns up the volume on the car radio, and Tom locks the screen black, feeling lighter. Even later, when Richard’s popped that little blue pill and Tom’s used, he smiles with sad eyes. He aches. He doubts. He worries. He’s delirious and flushed, his heart hammering at the thought of his man on the other side of the world.

In the middle of the night, while Richard is snoring and Tom’s managed to roll to the other side of the bed, his phone vibrates under his pillow. He wakes with a start and checks the screen, squinting at the harsh light that burns his retinas.

It’s Chris.

He pushes the blankets away and slips from the bed, answering the call with a swipe of his thumb.

“Hello?” He whispers, sneaking away to the other room with quiet steps.

“I had to hear your voice.”

His mouth twists with the effort to not smile and roll his eyes, endeared beyond belief.

“And now you’ve heard it,” he teases softly, closing the door to the bedroom behind him, looking around the dark hotel suite that’s lit from the city outside the windows.

“I dreamt of you,” Chris murmurs, “You were incredibly sweet to me…did everything I said, even kissed me when I asked you to.”

Tom never did. He still couldn’t return the affection his drug lord showered him in, no matter how hard he tried and how open they’d been. He was sure it was something he could never fix.

“Definitely sounds like a dream,” Tom murmurs, going over to the window, completely nude with fuzzy curls.

“Where are you?”

“San Diego,” Tom murmurs, truthful, “My older client always takes me here.”

“Adding San Diego to my list of ‘places never to take my sweetheart’.”

Tom smiles in the dark, taking a seat in front of the window, knowing full well that he’s become the type of person to smile into a phone receiver. But only ever for Chris. “How thoughtful of you. Here I thought you were just a cold-blooded drug lord.”

“I try to redeem myself,” Chris hums, and Tom knows he’s not joking or being playful, “I do too many bad things in a day, even if it’s not personally.”

“Like?”

“I’ll tell you in person.” Chris will always be paranoid of bugged phones.

“Okay,” he murmurs, satisfied.

The line goes quiet, and then they begin to laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. A call at three in the morning, for no reason but to talk.

“ _Te adoro siempre_ ,” he murmurs, squirming a little in his seat as Chris laughs at him.

“Your Spanish is getting better,” the Aussie teases, “Say, ‘ _te echo de menos’_.”

“And what does that mean?” Tom hums, watching cars drive down the street from the fifth floor.

“It means, ‘I miss you’.”

“ _Te echo de menos_ ,” Tom murmurs, trying to get his accent to curve and bend around the words, and Chris chuckles again, delighted.

He speaks quickly, “ _Yo también te echo de menos , cariño_.”

“I heard ‘I miss you’, but that’s it,” Tom ‘ehehe’s, glancing back at the bedroom door, finding it still shut tight.

“That’s all you need to know,” Chris says with a smile, it’s so obvious in his voice that it makes Tom sick with sweetness.

When the line is quiet again, he murmurs, “Happy Valentine’s Day, Chris.”

“ _Feliz San Valentín_ , Thomas.”

“ _Feliz San Valentín_ ,” he echoes softly, and Chris hums his approval.

“I expect you to remember this lesson the next time I see you.”

“Oh, you’re going to quiz me now?” Tom raises a brow, rubbing at his bare thigh.

“Of course. How else are you going to learn?”

He rolls his tired eyes and murmurs a goodnight, smiling at the softness of Chris’ voice before the line goes dead.

A shiver runs through him the moment his phone is locked, and he looks around the dark room, shivering. Had it always been so chilly?

Reluctantly, he returns to the bedroom, glad to find Richard still asleep. He sneaks back into bed, feeling very much like the escort he is, and tries to replay the phone call in his head to put him to sleep, remembering the smooth voice and soft laughter on the other end of the receiver. He remembers bright blue eyes and sandy hair, soft to the touch. He remembers firm muscles, warm lips, and sincerity. He remembers until it aches, wanting to be back there, to be with him, to never be without him. Ever.

The next time he reunites with Chris, it’s like coming home. He wonders how long that feeling will stay.


	14. Two Scars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Living without you  
> is no life at all  
> Living without you  
> is no life, no life, no life at all”  
> Sun Went Black ~ Springtime Carnivore 
> 
> Please excuse any mistakes I've made, I no longer have a beta!

The first mistake he made was letting his guard down, especially around a man like Chris.

A man who is as dangerous as he is handsome. A man who has an uncanny fondness for jazz music, particularly Amy Winehouse, Ella Fitzgerald, and Etta James. He’s the man who likes to hum the songs of these women to Tom, grabbing him around the waist and grinning into a forced kiss while his lovely boy tries to worm his way out of that tight embrace.

Tom’s sure it’s romantic, in some weird Australian way.

But, he can’t forget who Chris really is.

He closes his eyes as he hears another pained grunt, the wet sound of bloody spit hitting the cold floor.

“ _Dime de nuevo_.”

He grips his forearms as there’s another smack, the hollow sound of a bloodied fist against skin, and he stares down at his lap as the man begins to cry and beg behind him.

_See what happens when you fuck around with Chris?_

His face twists into a grimace as he hears another hit, and then a hard thump.

Chris is calm and cool and it’s scary how precise he is.

He jumps as a hand settles on his shoulder, and he looks up. Clover urges him to his feet.

“What?” He whispers to the muscled man, frowning at the tight grip on his arm as he’s lead out of the room.

“You should not be in there,” the Spaniard mutters, once they’ve left the room and Tom’s shoulders have left his ears, “You looked like you were in just as much pain.”

“Just memories,” Tom mutters in return, smoothing a hand through soft golden curls, his other arm wrapping around his thin torso in an awkward little hug, “My father…--”

“Yeah,” Clover frowns at him, and they share a look, the older man understanding of what Tom meant. “Mine, too.”

Tom presses his lips together and nods, both turning and walking down the narrow hallway.

“What did that guy do?” He can’t help but ask, both arms wrapped around himself as they walk into the spacious living room of the man’s home, ignoring the screaming of what Tom guessed was mercy.

“Turned on Chris,” Clover walked around the room, while Tom went to the large window overlooking palm trees and the beach a mile away.

“How?”

“Lied, mostly. Chris is worried he’s said something to another ring. That’s why he’s trying to beat it out of him.”

Ah.

“And if he didn’t?” He whispers, looking off to the horizon, the sea and sky blending together.

“He will still die.”

As if on cue, there’s a muffled gunshot from the bedroom, and Tom jumps in surprise as he turns back to the hall, the beautiful scenery forgotten to the sight of Chris walking down the hall, wiping his hands on a bloodied hand towel.

Their eyes meet as the Aussie stops at the entrance, his stony face freckled with blood.

_“¿Terminado?”_ Clover asks from the kitchen, his face equally as grim.

Chris nods, silent as he stares at his boy. Tom swallows around his dry throat and follows with quiet steps as Chris turns to leave.

Clover drives as Tom slides into the back with Chris, staring out of the window with one hand in his lap while the other curls under his chin, resting it there as he watches the palm trees pass by in blurs. The car is quiet, the radio off, and Tom closes his eyes as the car drives over the bumpy gravel.

Columbia seemed much more fun without the aspect of death. He should have expected it, though. Chris hadn’t invited him along for a fun getaway.

No, he was here to help. In a sense.

Chris had rented out a little studio apartment in Bogotá for the month, where Tom would be staying with him for two weeks. For what, Ashlie had asked, and Tom’s response was always the same: _I have no idea_.

It’s almost like Chris is his only client now. Richard had left, a month ago. Tom’s recent absence had made him rethink his relationship with his wife, and figured that he should try to work it out before it was too late. Tom had heard it from Ashlie, who hadn’t been too happy to know that another client was gone.

And then Chester, who had stopped calling and texting. Tom didn’t mind. He was boring.

Sonja, on the other hand, still wanted him for special events. Weddings, birthdays, and the odd Saturday night out. He hasn’t seen her copper red hair for a few weeks now, and wonder if he ever will.

The sudden emptiness back home makes him crave the new atmospheres with Chris, and he’s always accepted the offers of going with him, wherever and whenever. Ashlie didn’t like it, despite the steady income.

Back at the apartment, Chris is quiet. He moves around like a ghost, his steps light but his shoulders are heavy with the murder of a man who had once worked for him. Tom tries, and fails, to sympathize.

So, while Chris showers, Tom looks for some alcohol.

He can only assume killing can take its toll on someone. Chris is cold when he wants to be, can seem indifferent when he pulls a trigger, but Tom knows that’s not true. He hurts, even now, and Tom knows because he sees the same look into his own eyes. The self-loathing. The feeling of being weak. The fucking _doubt_. He’s only known bodies in the state of living, and figures it must be harder to deal with the dead.

Freshly showered, Chris slumps into an arm chair in the living room, looking out at the city across the room. The sun is setting and the night will soon embrace them both like a familiar lover, but for now, at dusk, Tom pours Chris some Tanqueray and walks over, glass tumbler in carefully cupped hands. He offers it without a word, standing next to the drug lord, and clenches his jaw as Chris takes it just as quietly. He doesn’t meet his boy’s gaze, his eyes heavy with responsibility.

Tom leaves him be, knowing he can’t do much else. The last time this had happened, in Florida with one of his street men, he’d tried to comfort Chris but he’d gotten a hard glare and knew to back off. His daddy needed to cool off.

He showers his own shame away, watching it go down the drain. He takes his time dragging the cloth over his skin, watching the fat bubbles of soap slide down his lightly tanned and sunburnt body, wondering when showering became something so…normal. He’d used to run to his little haven. His own little corner of the world, where he was alone and raw. Not anymore. He feels the most raw when he’s in the arms of the man sitting out there, in that arm chair, sipping at his glass of gin and enjoying the way it burns on the way down.

Perhaps it’s Chris’ way of numbing himself.

Once he’s dried and dressed, boxer-briefs and a loose shirt, he quietly goes to check on Chris. He hovers in the doorway of the bedroom, his brows pinched as he watches Chris sit and stare out of the window, the lines in his face creased with thought. His glass is empty on the little table by his side, his thumb brushing back and forth over his bottom lip.

A floorboard creaks under his weight, when Tom shifts to his other foot, and his heart stops as the Aussie glances over at him. They stare at one another, judging whether or not to speak just yet, and it’s Chris that finally says, “Come here.”

His feet pat along the ground as he walks across the hardwood, only stopping once he’s curled up in Chris’ lap like a child. He feels ridiculous like this, but he tucks his face into Chris’ neck and closes his eyes, knowing that he’s only imagining the scent of blood on his lover’s skin. Strong arms don’t wrap around him, they remain on the armrests, but Tom knows that it’s important for Chris to have him like this.

“Sometimes,” Chris’ voice is gruff as he mutters into golden curls, “I wonder why I’m here. Why I let myself get into this.”

“You told me it’s the only thing you know,” he mutters back, recalling conversations from over a year ago.

Oh, how times have changed and gone.

“I never wanted to grow up and become this. I never wanted to kill my own men to protect myself.”

“You killed him because he put you and the rest of your men in danger,” Tom argues softly, eyes slowly opening, “You made a sacrifice for more than just yourself.”

“Have you ever killed anyone, Tom?”

That shuts him up. Perhaps he can’t really help, after all.

“I’m sorry,” Chris murmurs after a tense moment, “I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

_Apologies so soon? Wow._

“I forgive you,” Tom mumbles, placing his hand over Chris’ heart, “You’re stressed out. I understand.” He’s here to help Chris relax. He’s the distraction he pays for. He can’t fix or change Chris, and accepts that.

“I just…” Chris trails off, sighing as he finally wraps his arms around the Brit, Tom’s legs dangling from the armrest, “This is the only time I hate it. But, I have to do it. My men have to fear and respect me, or they’ll turn, like he did.”

He was stuck, just like Tom.

“I understand,” Tom murmurs, “Not in the same sense, but I do. You have to keep that control or everything will crumble beneath your feet.”

“Exactly.”

Chris kisses his forehead, softly, and Tom sighs in something close to relief.

“Clover told me what happened,” he mutters, hoping it doesn’t upset Chris, “What happens if he was dealing with another ring?”

“He was,” Chris’ voice is just as soft, “He could have told them anything. He was processing it, he knows the locations and who’s who. My dealers on the street don’t know as much as they do, but word gets around through them, and if anyone found out…it’s…more than just talking, you have to understand that. I have to relocate that site, have to ensure everyone’s safety…it’s a lot of work.”

“It sounds like it,” Tom frowns, “Did you know him?”

“Yeah. That’s the worst part.”

Tom wraps his arm around Chris’ middle, rubbing his cheek against the warm collarbone peeking out of Chris’ shirt, “We should sleep.”

Despite his agreement, they both know he won’t.

**

He returns to normal over the next few days. Chris’ frowns curve upwards into smiles, laughter bubbles from his chest, and soon, he’s back. Tom lays in bed with him, smiling at the sleepy look Chris has upon his face as he wakes. He could watch this face wake up day after day, month after month.

He loves him.

He’s obsessed with him.

He’ll ruin him.

\--

“Ashlie doesn’t like it when I steal you,” Chris hums, sitting out on the sunny balcony with Tom, who’s peeling a clementine.

“I know,” he smirks, glancing up at the blond, “He interrogates me every time I go home. And it’s not stealing if I’m willing.”

“I try to comfort him. I tell him I’m good to you, I keep you out of trouble.”

“Yeah, sure you do,” Tom hums, peeling a small slice from the others, “Does he know that I tag along on business?”

“No.”

“Good.”

Chris eyes him, his jaw unshaven and hair slicked back, “I’m sure he would keep me from seeing you if he knew.”

“Without a doubt,” Tom chews, looking up at him again, “Which is why I don’t tell him anything.”

“You lie to your boss?”

_Careful._

Tom sets his fruit down onto the table slowly, and looks up, into the Aussie’s eyes. They stare at one another, like they always do, like it’s some sort of competition.

“I lie out of necessity,” he says calmly, “You said it yourself. We couldn’t see each other if I told him everything we did.”

“But you lie. To his face.”

His patience snaps, “So what? I lie to you, too, then? Is that what this is about?”

Chris keeps his cool, but he looks a little angry, “Do you?”

“What? Lie to you?”

“Yes.”

_Lie._

“No. Not anymore.”

_Lie, dammit._

Chris tilts his head to the side a little, “Why do you care if we don’t see each other?”

Tom swallows the truth this time. Instead, he mutters, “You know why.”

“Do I?” Chris raises a brow, “How can I know something you’ve never told me?”

“Because you’ve never told me, either.”

The silence between them in stifling, even though it only lasts a moment.

“Why are you arguing with me?” Tom asks, his brows inverted, tired of this game they’ve been playing for so long, “If you’re angry, fuck me. That’s why I’m here.” Chris’ mouth opens, but Tom cuts him off, “And I don’t mean that in the way I used to. I’m here for you, Chris. Whatever you need from me, I’ll give you.”

“You can’t give me what I want the most,” Chris frowns, “You know that.”

He does. Dammit, he does.

He looks out to the ocean, brows knitted together as he places a piece of clementine on his tongue and doesn’t say a word.

**

The day before they leave, Tom wakes up with an ache in his shoulder, his mind still fuzzy with the nightmare of gunfire and golden teeth as he mumbles to his lover.

“Do you need a massage?” Chris asks, his hand already on his boy’s shoulder.

“I don’t know, maybe,” Tom pouts, sleepy eyes looking out of the bedroom window, “It…aches.”

“You probably slept on it funny,” Chris kisses his freckled skin, “You sleep all curled up sometimes, I’m surprised you don’t get a cramp from it.”

“It’s a hard habit to break,” he sighs, rubbing at his face, “What are we doing today?”

“Nothing. Clover’s been gone the whole weekend, it’s too dangerous to leave right now.”

Tom glances over at him, making a face as Chris’ thumb digs deep into his muscle, “Where’d he go?”

“His family.”

_Oh, right._

“You didn’t know?” Chris smirks.

“I did. He told me about them, even showed me a picture.”

“Oh? When?”

“In Vegas.”

“That was a long time ago, sweetheart.”

“He never told you that he told me?”

“No. He tells me everything that has to do with the ring, nothing else.”

Tom flicks his eyes down to the sheets, tilting his head as Chris’ thumb inches higher, “Even in Vegas?”

“Well…” Chris’ voice softens, “He tells me everything that has to do with you.”

_Stop smiling._

“Stalking me, hm?”

Chris chuckles, playing along, “What else am I supposed to do in my free time?”

“I mean, what is there to stalk? I’m with you almost all the time.”

“As you should be,” Chris murmurs without hesitation, pressing another kiss to his lover’s shoulder, and Tom closes his eyes as he realizes that Chris is just as attached as he is.

He isn’t sure if it’s euphoria or dread that washes over him, but he melts all the same.

\--

He tries to sleep, but the soft light from Chris’ side of the bed is distracting, as is the soft music playing from the kitchen. He can’t keep his eyes closed for more than a minute, before they’re peeking open, watching the blurred colours in the sky. Blue, pink, yellow, orange. He splays his fingers over the white sheets, feeling his nakedness rub against the cotton, untouched.

“Why don’t you take me to your house?” He asks quietly, hearing Chris turn another page of his book. He’s been reading for over an hour, as long as Tom’s tried to sleep.

“I can’t stay anywhere for too long these days,” Chris murmurs, his voice low, “Travelling is risky. A lot of rings are being infiltrated by the police. They’re cracking down on us.”

That’s not the answer he wanted.

Chris sighs, and Tom hears the sound of stubble sliding against a rough palm, “I haven’t been to my house in over a year. I have someone living there for me, to keep it safe for when I need it.”

When he needs it?

“When do you think you’ll need it?” He asks softly, turning around to see the drug lord, propped up against the headboard with two pillows behind him. He reaches up to brush blond hair away from a worried face, tucking it behind an ear.

“I don’t know,” Chris murmurs again, his gaze flicking all over Tom’s face, the book laid against his lap, “When everything goes to shit. When I need to lay low until it’s safer to deal…it’s hard to say.”

Maybe Ashlie knows about the police and what they’ve been doing down here. He doesn’t want Tom to hang around with Chris when things are so dangerous. He can be caught, both Tom and he, and the rest of his escorts. It’s not illegal, what he’s doing, but paying for sex is. Tom can’t afford his apartment on just outcall events.

Maybe he’d go to prison.

“What are you thinking about?” Chris puts his book away, shutting the little lamp off to drown the room in a dark blue.

“Prison,” Tom murmurs, feeling Chris’ hands on his hip.

“Why?”

Tom reaches to smooth the line between Chris’ eyebrows, kissing it gently when it doesn’t disappear completely, “Because you mentioned police.”

“Are you scared?” Chris’ hands are rough on his skin, pulling them close, and Tom hooks his leg over his lover’s hip on instinct.

“Not when I’m with you,” he murmurs, kissing the furrow of the other’s brows.

“You should be,” Chris sighs, touching his boy, caressing the milky underside of his thigh. He’s told him this so many times.

“Do you want me to be?” He asks, pulling away to look into artic eyes, searching for the answer in them.

Chris stares for a moment, before he cracks a smile, and a soft huff, like he can’t believe himself, “No, baby. Never.”

“Then stop trying to scare me off,” Tom rolls his eyes, and Chris chuckles, delighted with him.

“Okay,” the Aussie murmurs in his silly accent, wrapping his arm around Tom, “I’ll stop.”

Tom murmurs a ‘good’ and closes his eyes, trying to sleep while ignoring the ache in his shoulder.

**

A month later, in between dangerous trips, Chris calls him on a sunny afternoon, “I’m going to Florida.”

Tom’s brows furrow, his phone squished between his cheek and shoulder as he carries his laptop to the balcony, “Why?”

“My friend has something for me.”

He didn’t like the way his stomach turned to knots, the sudden heaviness of his heart. Which friend? The last time they went to Florida, Chris had to kill one of his men.

“Will you come with me?”

His brows knitted, feet shuffling just before leaving to the balcony, his laptop heavy in his hands…

_Don’t._

“Of course.”

Why does it feel like he’s just sealed his fate?

_Because you did._

Chris hums, pleased, “I’ll talk to Ashlie.”

The phone call ends, and Tom takes a calming breath before stepping out into the bright sun.

**

The series of events that lead them here made Tom uneasy. He’s been flying around the world with this man for an entire year, although it definitely doesn’t feel like that. He’s seen Chris at his best, happy and successful, and at his worst, when he’s quietly mourning a loss with a glass of alcohol and a heavy heart. They fight, they make up, and they’re continuously inching around three dangerous words - a lethal phrase, which would cut Tom deeper than any knife ever could.

Maybe it’s the fact that Chris is in even more danger than he’s ever been. Or, that Tom’s ignorance to it all only heightens his anxiety. He knows what’s going on. Chris is being hunted. Someone marked a big, ugly ‘x’ on his back in blood and now it’s a wild goose chase to see who gets his head first. Chris only keeps his disposable phones for a day. His drug lord lover is losing sleep over the image of someone finding him in the middle of the night and putting a bullet in his head, dragging his cold, dead body to the police for some reward. He’s terribly paranoid under the cool and collected coating, trusting only a handful of people.

Tom is his only salvation. He covets his boy, for as long as he can, as soon as he can. Tom’s at his side far too much, he’s never home, because Chris has become that. Wherever Chris was, Tom was at home. It was terrifying and comforting and Tom hated himself for it.

_You’re always so hypocritical._

It’s not like he can stop.

Nevertheless, he knows what will happen - what _could_ happen. He can be picked up, on the street or through a fake client, and held hostage until Chris gave himself up for his precious baby. They’d shoot him in the head, anyway, because Chris has done the same to them. Ripped apart love, sliced throats, cracked a jaw under his foot. Taken what wasn’t his. A greedy man, an honest man, who was cruel only to survive. Tom understood that, but he didn’t condone it.

_Your ignorance is showing._

Perhaps it’s a new way of numbing himself. He’s only going from bad to worse now. Loving the very person that would surely kill him in the end. It was sort of like walking into your own execution with open arms.

That’s the reason why he begins to pull away from hugs, resisting kisses, unwilling to talk about what was bothering him. He’s changed over the past month and it’s obvious in the way Chris’ frustration skyrockets. It only made him pull Tom closer and kiss him harder, making the Brit love him all the more, his inability to just let him go.

He couldn’t escape, and that dreaded wire of his sanity was going to snap any second.

“Sleep well, baby?” Chris asks once they’ve landed and the golden haired boy has finally stirred, curled up awkwardly in the soft leather seat beside him.

“No,” he croaks softly, straightening with a grimace, “We’re here?”

Chris nods, his eyes soft as he watches his boy wake, a calculated look that Tom knew all too well.

He follows him out, offering Clover a small smile as they meet up with him. He receives a little nod in return, before the two men are talking in quiet Spanish.

Maybe he’s wrong. Perhaps Chris’ friend has something for him that has nothing to do with drugs at all. Maybe it’s something personal.

_A bullet can be personal._

Despite his dry throat and knotted stomach, he follows the Aussie into a black car, settling in beside him as he always does.

“Which friend is this, again?” He can’t help but ask, pressing his side against Chris, wanting some sort of comfort.

“A Frenchman,” Chris smirks, his eyes downcast as he fiddles with his phone. He never fiddles with his phone.

“Should I…know anything?” Tom asks, flicking his eyes over to Clover in the front seat with the driver. They’re talking quietly, and Tom’s thankful that Clover knows how to distract.

“No,” Chris makes a face, passing it off as nothing, “We’ve been friends for a while. Done deals, always good.”

Tom eyes him, unsure, as always. He brought protection in the form of Clover and a trigger, he knows that. He always does. He’s seen Chris protect himself with less, and doesn’t doubt his abilities to keep Tom safe. He never does.

It still doesn’t settle his stomach any.

“That’s comforting,” he murmurs, trying his best to sound sincere, but it comes out forced and he’s not good at faking anything with Chris anymore.

His client looks at him, eyes him in return, before nodding quietly. “It won’t be long,” he murmurs, his hand finally on Tom’s knee, a secure weight that he’s needed, “An hour, tops.”

Just an hour, and then they can go back to the hotel. Maybe go out to eat. Or not, as Tom’s developed a soft tummy from all the rich foods they consume. It’s a little embarrassing, despite Chris’ late-night worshipping. He recalls it with a fond smile, dozens of kisses pressed into his pale skin as he hid behind a pillow, murmuring about how he was getting chubby and Chris reassured him that he liked it.

He believes him, but he was never completely comfortable in his own skin, and that’s a hard habit to break.

He settles with a soft ‘okay’, and presses his cheek to the shoulder of Chris’ suit jacket, eyes downcast.

\--

Once the sun’s low in the sky, colouring it a beautiful orange, they arrive at a villa. It’s beautiful, he has to admit, with how its rustic features blended beautifully with the modern design. A stone driveway, two stories with a balcony, and a pool the size of a small lake in the back.

“You should get one,” he tells Chris quietly as they leave the car, his lover’s face a blank slate.

“You like it?” The Aussie asks, pressing his hand to Tom’s lower back as they walk up to the entrance.

Tom nods, looking at the palm trees and the hedges that promised privacy, “It’s gorgeous,” he whispers, his eyes turning to the opening front door, where a – surprisingly – _pale_ man is standing. His teeth are too white and his hair is slicked back, dark brown and thinning. He’s older than Chris by many years, and it nearly sickens him to think that this type used to be his typical client.

“Chris!” The man says, arms open with a grin, a fat cigar pinched between two fingers. His accent is terribly thick, bringing Tom back to Paris.

He’s left behind as the Aussie goes up to greet him, giving him a brief friendly hug, but the man’s dark eyes haven’t left the young thing standing just before the stone steps to his home.

“Laron, nice to see you again,” Chris smiles, turning to Tom and motioning him forward.

“And who is this?” The Frenchman takes a drag of his cigar, the tip burning bright as Tom climbs the small stairs to meet him, taking the rough, sun-dried hand into his own just as his eyes settle on the man’s teeth, a few capped in gold.

His stomach drops.

“Thomas.”

“Tom.”

Laron smirks at the two of them, “I will call him Thomas,” he chuckles, blowing a big cloud into the air above them. Tom doesn’t miss the clench of Chris’ jaw. He’s always so jealous and possessive, something Tom adored about him.

“Please,” Laron steps to the side, motioning them to go inside, “Come in, come in. You, too, Clover!”

Tom turns just before entering the villa, seeing Clover come up the stairs after dealing with the driver of the car, and watched the two share a brief hug and warm greetings.

Well, if Clover and Chris trusted him, Tom should, too.

He just wished that nagging feeling would disappear from his stomach.

The inside of the place is even better than the outside. High ceilings, natural lighting, and there are artifacts from all around the world, telling a lot about the man who lived there, but it’s plain to see that Laron adores his homeland. The entire décor reminded him of his trip to France with Chris all those months ago.

“Ah, I hope you do not mind, I brought my lawyer over,” Laron says, as Tom peeks around a corner to see a plainly dressed man sitting in the living room, a closed briefcase on the glass coffee table. He looks distinctly European.

_He certainly doesn’t look like any lawyer I’ve seen. Even Chris’ suits are nicer than his._

Tom watched the three other men walk into the spacious room, his eyes lingering on Chris’ back as he misses what is said and they begin to laugh. They all take a seat, so Tom decides to take a walk, like he always does during Chris’ deals. The buyers always became nervous with him around, despite Chris’ assurance that he was with him and was fine. He preferred to only see the side of Chris that he knew, anyway.

The voices begin to fade as he walks down the hallway to his right, eyes trailing lazily over the paintings on the walls and the various sculptures on pedestals. It’s all very lux, spotting fur rugs and no personal pictures, and the more he wanders around, glancing out of ceiling-to-floor windows to the pool, he realizes how _fake_ it all is.

It’s a false sense of living. Collecting things and showing them off for no other reason but to say he has them. Maybe there’s no story behind any of these sculptures or pots or paintings. Where are the pictures of him smiling with his travel companions? Perhaps he has no family, no lovers, nothing. Maybe it’s all at face value.

Maybe it’s only temporary.

He passes by the kitchen, hearing Chris’ voice, and is suddenly reminded of his nearly crippling anxiety.

Instead of going over to sit next to his man, he settles for sitting at the island in the kitchen, chin in hand as he watched the group of men.

There was something undeniably _off_. The atmosphere was calm, they all interacted like old friends, but…Tom new nervous energy when he felt it. He was the fucking king of uneasiness. It settled low in his gut, blooming like an ugly flower.

Laron continued to glance at him as time passed and the sun set lower, flicking his gaze across the group before meeting Tom’s unwavering gaze. He looked nervous. That was his third cigar, and Tom knew how much time and energy it took to finish one. He was _stressed_.

Yet, Chris doesn’t notice. He has developed a sudden blindness to any danger despite his own crippling paranoia.

That big ‘x’ on his back is on his forehead now.

“Have you heard of Antoine?” Laron asks with a frown, elbows on his knees as he leant forward, glancing at both Chris and Clover, who nod with matching grim looks. “I hear the police bust into his home, take his wife hostage, and shoot him, just like that.”

“That’s what I heard,” Chris mutters, leaning back in his seat with a sigh, “It’s getting dangerous out there. I can’t stay in one place for more than a month.”

Laron ‘tsk’ed with a shake of his head, “See, that is why I stopped. Too dangerous! Too many enemies. I could not sleep easy at night.”

…how on _earth_ did Laron get out of trafficking drugs?

Even Chris looks a little puzzled, his brows furrowed, “Then, why are you buying from me? Why the lawyer?” He tilts his head to the man sitting on the seat beside him, who hadn’t talked much at all. Tom hasn’t seen his lips move in over the hour they’ve been there, has never heard his voice. He works for Laron, that’s obvious, but Tom has a feeling that he hasn’t studied the law much at all.

Everyone’s eyes were suddenly on the Frenchman, who was taking a rather long drag of his cigar, looking incredibly calm. It was Cuban, Tom could smell it.

“I,” he began, the thick smoke pouring from his mouth, his gaze calculated, “Am going to be going soon. Far away.”

“Back home?” Clover asks, curious, but Tom knows that cautious tick of his eyebrow.

Laron smiles, his eyes soft, “Something like that. I want some comforts once I’m gone.”

Comforts. Cocaine is his comfort, it seems.

Or bounty money.

The doorbell rings and Tom jumps in surprise.

 “Ah!” Laron chuckles, acting embarrassed as he moves to stand, “Just a moment, please, forgive me!”

Clover and Chris brush it off, watching their friend go before Tom is fidgeting in his seat, desperately wanting Chris’ attention. He always turns invisible during these meetings, the ones that could drag on for hours, but the heaviness in his gut couldn’t be ignored any longer. Something was off.

_Look over here._

Tom bit his lip, straightening his spine, needing Chris’ attention even for a _second_ so he could see the openly worried look on his boy’s face. He kept talking to Clover in low Spanish, their heads bowed toward one another.

The supposed lawyer saw him, though, and he spoke for the first time by excusing himself. French accent. Tom watched him go, followed him with his eyes, and knew where he was heading.

Tom's gone in a second, too.

He crept through the hallway that he’d strolled, passing the clay pots from Africa and the statues from Greece, light on his feet as he crept towards the hushed voices near the entrance.

With a peek around the corner, he spots five men, all wearing black.

_“Est ce qu'il est la?”_

Tom tastes bile.

Laron's upset, visibly. He'as nearly a wreck, speaking in quick French that Tom barely caught. He strains his ears, glanced behind him, and closed his eyes to focus on calming his breath and listening to the group of men.

_‘I told you to come later. This is too soon, too suspicious!'_

_‘Apologies.’_

_‘Whatever. Do you have it?’_

_‘Yes, all of them.’_

Maybe it had to do with the deal.

_‘You are all idiots, remember that. You get nothing out of this.’_

The click of a gun makes Tom’s blood run cold, his eyes snapping open.

_“Tue-le.”_

Kill him.

“ _Chris!_ ”

His legs are as heavy as stone as he runs, just like in his nightmares, where he was too slow to move and the bullets were too fast. He trips, his knee skidding across the polished floor, bleeding lightly as he ran back to the living room with his heart in his throat.

Chris looks worried, alarmed, as Tom runs around the island and to his lover, hands outreached and blue eyes wide.

The first shot rings in his ears, a shrill sound that surely pops them, and he crashes into the Aussie’s chest as that ugly flower of earlier dread turned into a pain in his chest, his heart thumping so loudly against his ribs.

His vision blurs, blacks out in the familiar way when he used to numb himself during sex, and he blinks once the wind is knocked out of him and he’s on the floor. Gunshots turn to white noise as he’s crushed under a familiar weight, scarily heavy and limp, and he clutches at Chris’ red shirt in his fists.

He’d worn white when they arrived, when had he changed?

He gasps sharply, as if brought back to life as the weight is lifted from his chest, before blood is spraying across his eyes as he squeezes them shut, another shot ringing his ears deaf.

_I told you not to go._

His chest hurts. Aches.

_You never listen to me._

He’s bleeding, too much. Oh, he’s so cold…

_You’re dying._

“Chris…”

He’s scared to close his eyes, his lids sticky as he blinks slowly, flicking his eyes around the red room. Artifacts knocked over, blood smeared here and there, like it had been a knife fight instead of gun. Where is he? Where is he?

Ah, there he is.

“Tom,” Chris rasps, going to his knees by his boy, blood all over him, gathering his boy up with a grunt as Tom feels a sleepiness overtake him.

Is it him? Or, is it Clover?

“Baby, stay with me…”

No, it’s Chris. Two of him.

“Thomas…”

_There’s no use fighting anymore. It’s over. There’s no more pain, can’t you feel it? You’re dead._


	15. (In the Land Of) Gods and Monsters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _My deepest apologies for the delay, please forgive me. I’ll do my best to update more frequently, now that I have a laptop again. Thank you for being patient <3 _

Oh, daddy, daddy, daddy…

A flash of baby blue.

Copper taste.

Deep within him, his heart stops – breaks – and then restarts with three painful pumps.

Exhaustion settles deep in his bones like lead.

_Dying shouldn’t be this painful_ , he thinks idly, before he slips away.

\--

There’s a pair of hands caressing him - softly at first, like lovers who only express their deepest passion in the dead of night.

But, as time goes on, they become rough and demanding, scraping and reddening his flesh with claw-like nails.

He can’t wake up and he hopes it’s only a dream.

**

_“Thomas…”_

_“Hm…?”_

_“What are you most afraid of?”_

_He thought about it for a long time. It wasn’t the dark. Or the cold. Maybe being alone? Forever and ever?_

_“If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”_

_“Funny.” Chris runs a hand through his curls, and Tom stares up at the ceiling with a hooded gaze, blue eyes soft and thoughtful as he’s pet._

_“Losing you,” He finally whispers, feeling tears slowly burn his eyes, knowing his words go unheard, “Never seeing you again, breathing and living, laughing and smiling. Never holding you in my arms and having you kiss me until I see stars. Being without you is something I can’t imagine.”_

_Chris stares at him in silence, wondering what’s going through his boy’s head._

_**_

He’s been dying for roughly 34 hours now, and he’s becoming impatient. Death isn’t supposed to be this way. It’s supposed to be quick into nothingness. A terrifying flat line that sends him off back home to the stars, becoming dust for the universe, leaving his body to rot and feed the earth.

Maybe this is hell.

No, it can’t be. If living has taught him anything, it’s that hell isn’t just a place after death.

Perhaps he only thinks that because of the fire in his lungs as he wakes up, coughing and thrashing, choking on his own breath as gentle hands attempt to hold him down.

_Where--_

“Mr. Hiddleston, please, calm down.”

She’s a pretty thing, with olive skin and chocolate eyes, her nose and cheeks round. She’s almost childlike, but she’s so calm, so gentle as she pushes Tom onto his back again, against the starchy sheets of what feels like a typical hospital bed.

He flicks his gaze around, finds no one else in the plainly decorated room, and then it all rushes back.

Chris, Laron, French voices. Bullets and pain and blood in his eyes.

“Thomas? Or, is it Tom?”

He swallows thickly and glances over at her again, “Tom,” he rasps softly, wincing at the sudden sharp pain in his left shoulder.

“Tom, my name is Sofía. I’m your nurse, and you’re in a private hospital room in Miami, Florida.” She gives him a quick once-over before going over to pour him some water from the pitcher near the window, “You were shot in the left shoulder and were urged into surgery three days ago. You are very lucky,” she turns and heads back to the bed, “There was no arterial damage, but plenty of soft-tissue trauma and some joint damage. You will suffer from pain for a while, so we have been giving you minimal mounts of morphine while you were asleep.”

He takes the water with his right hand and drinks slowly, as instructed. There are so many questions he wants to ask.

The first one being, “Where’s Chris?”

Sofía gives him a look of confusion, “Who?”

“Chris. Tall, blond, very handsome.”

She shakes her head, “You were brought in by a man with dark hair, and he did not stay after talking with the head nurse.”

Clover, then.

They dumped him here, alone, to be stitched up and forgotten.

“He ordered us to keep you here until you were healed.”

“Did he say if he was coming back?”

She shakes her head, and Tom wants to cry.

**

_“Tell me more about Frederick.”_

_His first instinct was to say ‘fuck off’, but Tom bit his tongue and stared at his lap, his gaze vacant and cold. They hadn’t discussed anything like this before, in detail - but, perhaps it’s about time._

_“He was very fat,” he murmurs, thumbing at his bony kneecap, “He was old. Greying. He wore a big, gold ring on his right ring finger. He hit me with that hand a lot, but he also caressed me with it, fed me, clothed me. Saved me.” His lip curls a little at that, disgust crossing his face, “He never touched me aside from that. He always made me touch myself. And, I didn’t mind, all that much. He only fucked me once, and that was the night he first picked me up.”_

_“And you were with him for two years?”_

_“Around that,” he mutters, taking in a slow, deep breath and letting it out just the same._

_“Did you love him?”_

_He sends Chris a look, “No. Would you love a monster?”_

_The returned gaze burns him, so he looks away, knowing the answer._

_“Like my father, Frederick is in the past, Chris.”_

_They don’t mention it again, because they realize there’s no need to. It strangely feels like closure._

**

He’s in that miserable little room for over a month. Granted, it could have been worse, and the small flat screen TV mounted on the wall helped him pass the long, empty days, along with the other patients.

There was Maria, an ill elderly deaf woman in the next room that tried to teach Tom how to sign. ‘Hello’, ‘how are you today’, ‘My name is T-O-M’, things like that. Her hair was greying and her skin looked like soft leather, but her eyes were kind and she was like a saint with how much patience she had. Tom liked to sit with her in her room and look out of the window, perched on the sill with his long limbs folded up against his chest. He went there to listen to the silence and watch the sky, wondering when heaven would take this angel from him.

He never did find out.

Down the hall was Edward, a middle-aged man in a coma that had dragged on for three years. He didn’t get many visitors, but Tom made sure to talk to him once a day, just sitting in the seat beside his bed and tell him things. The topics ranged from the weather outside to the other patients, and once, his old client, Richard. He wondered how he was. Perhaps he and Alonzo would get along, maybe. Although it was rather presumptuous of him to think so just because they were close in age. Edward would sleep, sleep, sleep, and Tom would sit for a while longer, listening to the heart monitor until it lulled him into a doze.

His saviour from boredom came in the shape of a terminally ill cancer patient, Paulo. Paulo was a man nearing his sixties, with a bald head and dark circles under his eyes, his body almost scarily thin.

“Six to twelve months, they said,” Paulo drawled one day, his hazel eyes still lively despite the topic of his upcoming death, “And here I am, two years later. Doctors are not always right. Sometimes I don’t trust them. You know, my father always told me, ‘do not rely on anybody but yourself’ and _I_ know when I’m going, not when some doctor tells me to. I’m going to live a little while longer, Tom. Even if it means I’m stuck in this fucking bed all day and night and Sofía has to clean the bedsores littering my wasting body.”

Paulo is strongly opinionated with a sharp tongue, something Tom quickly begins to admire. Paulo is unapologetic with his view on life, thinking the only way to live is to live big and the way you want to. He tells Tom about his luck with the lottery when he was poor, how he was a decent fellow that had a stroke of luck, and then he was shot in the stomach and that’s where they found the cluster of tumors. It was too late by that time.

It was almost like being back in school, in a funny little way. Tom always left that room with something new to think about, and their conversations rarely ran dry, as if Paulo had a fountain of knowledge and experience and Tom was parched.

“Do you have any regrets?” Tom asks softly one day, two weeks into his stay, still wearing his arm in a sling more for the mentality of not moving his shoulder than for actual practicality. He’s begun to let himself go a little, wearing the provided baggy hospital clothes and his golden curls becoming wayward and fuzzy, like they used to be when he was a child. The sleepless nights show under his blue eyes, his jaw is rough, and it’s nothing terrible yet, if not just a shade or two off from the hair on his head.

He rubs at it while he watches Paulo adjust himself in his bed, a slightly perplexed look on his face while asking, “What’s that?”

Tom’s never heard such a perfect answer before.

**

Even his dreams seem like nightmares. The sullen silences stretched between an Australian man and himself, seen through black and white eyes. The beach, the breeze, ruffled hair and unbuttoned collars, all black and white and grey. Sea salt skin against his tongue, his fingertips, until it crumbles to powdered sand in his hands. It’s very poetic and intense and it wakes Tom in a cold sweat, where he stares at the ceiling, trembling in that small hospital bed as he wonders where he’s gone and why he hasn’t come back yet.

He suffers through insomnia a week in, and is given pills, but he refuses to take them. He’s frightened of them and is given melatonin instead, which helps greatly, if not intensifies his dreams. The insomnia he can easily deal with, he's been battling it most of his life - it's the itch for a single drag of a cigarette that he can't stand. It haunts him just as much as Chris does, makes him want to go crazy with that taste on his tongue and the way his lungs begin to cough up the tar slowly. His chest rattles in the night during a fit, and he understood that his body was healing itself, but it didn't make it any easier. He was irritable and liked to soak in hot baths to soothe himself, which helped, but he took to placing a cut straw between his lips. It kept his hands and mouth occupied enough.

His cell phone is still beside his bed, silent and shut off. It’s been that way since Sofía handed it to him the day he woke up here, the screen cracked to shit. He’d stared at it for a long while, weighing the possibilities. Turn it on, see if there was anything, and wait if there wasn’t. He could be waiting forever in that case, and he knew that it was the most rational thing to do, to wait for a word from the man he needed most and be soothed by him. It was that endless waiting and craving, or, leave it off, and try to detach. Would it make it easier? To deny himself the person he wanted most? 

After a moment of pure hesitation, he’d placed it aside, and left it there.

**

He has a fever dream one day, due to his cigarette withdrawal, and imagines hot, supple kisses peppered onto his face and neck. He’s too weak to stop it and he succumbs to the suffocation of overwhelming emotion, smelling cinnamon cologne he knows isn’t really there. He can't remember if the tears burning his face were real or not.

**

“Do you believe in salvation?” He asks on his 18th day, curled up in the same chair he took every day when Paulo was up for a visitor. There were some days where the pain was too much, he’d once explained. It was like an ache, deep in his bones, and he just laid there quietly on those days, thinking and sleeping.

Today, Paulo is fine. Alive.

And Paulo gives this little shrug, “Only if you are honest with yourself, and whoever you’re begging it from.”

Tom wonders who he should beg salvation from. Maybe ‘sanctuary’ is a better word?

“What if it’s from the person you’re in love with?” He asks softly, licking his chapped lips, his eyes curious as he takes in the look on Paulo’s face.

“ _Love?_ ” Paulo shakes his head, “Love, Tom, doesn’t mean shit.”

For the first time, Tom’s furrows his brows and says, “That’s not true.”

“Think of it,” Paulo frowns, “I’m here, dying in bed, and where are the people that _love_ me? Hm? My children, my ex-wife, my friends. They don’t visit. Once, twice, maybe.”

“You can’t measure love by visits to your deathbed.”

“And why the hell not?” Paulo scoffs, “Even if it’s the thought that counts, they’re not here and a thought is passing, like a fart.”

Tom smirks and shakes his head, amused and saddened at the same time.

“You’re completely cynical, Paulo.”

“You think I don’t know that?” The older man shifts again, a bit of pain crossing his face, “Love…is something you make up, in your head. And, when you fall in love, you have to _be_ in love or else what’s the fucking point? It’s like having overripe fruit on a tree, it’ll rot if you don’t do something about it.”

Ice fills his veins. “Rot.”

“Yeah, rot. From the inside, out.”

It hits too close to home, so Tom thanks Paulo for the conversation, as always, before going back to his room. He shuts the door behind himself quietly, leaning against it, thinking.

Almost-love. Half love. Incomplete love.

_How could you do something like that?_

It’s always easier to blame others than take it yourself, and that’s exactly what Tom does.

He’s scared.

He almost lost the one person who’s ever really cared about him, in a way no man ever had. There wasn’t a single man in his life to serve as a good example of who and what a man should be. All he’s known is slaps and snaps and spit curses. Growing up like that, seeing nothing but it, who could blame him for the way he is? Clinging to people that show him just an ounce of care? And how could he be so selfish to blame them when he loses them?

_No_ , he realizes, Chris almost lost _him_. And where is he now?

There’s no room for rationality when you’ve nearly died for a man you love. Loved.

_Look at you, you’re alone, again. How many times will people abandon you before you understand that you are unlovable? Love doesn’t find people like you._

Maybe it’s time to accept that, and move on. Some people never find love in their life, they’re alone, and that’s just how it is. It’ll be hard, but he has to let go. There’s a lot of memories to burn.

_Look at the facts. You loved him, but you were too much of a coward to do anything about it. Rotting fruit, yeah? How did not voicing it keep it from hurting you less? It didn’t. Stop fooling yourself. You’re scared because no one has ever loved you this way and you constantly doubt yourself. Is this love? Or is it obsession? How is wanting him every minute of every day any different from Frederick? How is that dependency different from this--_

There’s a knock at the door, and Tom shakes himself from his thoughts, noticing that the sun is gone from outside the window.

He steps aside and opens the door, giving Sofía a small smile as she slowly pushes her way into the room with a tray of food.

“You look sad,” she comments, going over to the bed as Tom follows, taking a seat and watching her pull the little table over.

“I was just thinking,” he murmurs, eyeing the vegetable soup as it’s set in front of him. Mm, pudding for dessert.

“About?”

“Things.”

She leaves it at that with a hum, and takes a seat at the foot of the bed, pulling out a thin file from under her arm that he hadn’t noticed before. Tom watches her curiously as he sips at the soup, chewing on a piece of celery as she places a piece of paper down next to his meal.

“Your test results are back,” she says with a smile, “You are expected to make a complete recovery, if you do physiotherapy regularly after you leave. You will have flare-ups for the rest of your life, unfortunately, but with the joint damage it is only expected. I know a great physiotherapist in California, we’ve been friends for a long time, and I can refer you to him if you’d like.”

Permanent damage. “That would be great. Thank you.”

She smiles with a nod and takes a pen from her pocket, writing down a small note for herself before continuing, “You are also being prescribed more pain medication--”

“No,” he interrupts, nearly dropping his spoon, “No, no, please. No more.”

She takes in his pleading expression, and given his circumstances and lifestyle, she nods, not saying another word about it aside from making another note.

It’s not an addiction he wants.

A small bout of silence falls between them, Tom eating quietly while Sofía reads over the rest of his small file. He’d had to see a physiotherapist earlier that week, to assess where his movement was and where to begin, along with other scans and having blood drawn. His blood was clean and everything else was fine. He was a month into not smoking, so she advised he quit, and he shrugged in response.

“How’re you sleeping?” She asks, pen at the ready.

“Fine,” he shrugs, “Six hours now. I’m still tired, though. All the time.” As usual.

She doesn’t look too bothered by that. “Nightmares?”

“Not about the shooting, no.”

She looks up, her ponytail falling to the side as she gives him a confused look, “Then what are they about?”

He looks down at his soup and stirs it quietly, “Chris.”

Her face softens and she nods, understanding. He’s mentioned Chris numerous times over the weeks, but it’s never anything too revealing, just that he was a man that had broken Tom’s heart and was there when he was shot. He tells her every nightmare, usually, but not everything.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

He shrugs, because despite the intensity of his thoughts, he’s not in the mood to say them out loud. “Not yet, I guess.”

“Then, when?”

He furrows his brows and flicks his gaze up to her, looking like a petulant child. And where Chris loved that look, Sofía is a little annoyed.

As always, she doesn’t push it. She simply gathers her papers and says, “As your nurse, I urge you to talk about it. To anyone. Even Edward, if you’d prefer. It’s better to get it out in the air than have it in your head.”

She shuts the door behind her with a soft ‘click’, and Tom stirs his soup.

**

It's a habit that he doesn’t talk to anyone about it, instead he shoves it to the back of his head and begins to read the book Sofía had given him the other day. _Madame Bovary_ , by Gustave Flaubert. She told him it’s about a doctor's wife, Emma Bovary, who has affairs and lives luxuriously in order to escape the emptiness of her dull life. He reads it within three days, and loves it. Emma’s unsatisfactory with everything in her life is incredibly relatable, and sad because of that. He grows incredibly fond of the story and Sofía gives it to him, as a gift.

One afternoon, when he’s three chapters into rereading the book, there’s a knock on the door and he calls an absentminded, “Come in.”

Clover walks in, as if it were a dream.

There’s a stunned silence, where Tom is lounging in bed with his book, looking like utter shit, while Clover has a hand on the doorknob and is wearing something incredibly casual, although he, too, looks like utter shit. It’s strangely comforting.

So much, that Tom loses his book and is across the room, running into Clover, making the bigger man grunt as Tom knocks into him and hugs him tightly. It isn’t a dream. The embrace is not returned, and he shifts awkwardly, but Tom takes it willingly. It’s the first familiar face he’s seen in almost six weeks.

Clover shuts the door and when he turns back to Tom, his brows are furrowed, “Why have you not answered your phone?” He asks, sounding a little annoyed and perhaps a little concerned, and Tom glances over at it on the bedside table, to which Clover does, too. He takes three paces before he picks it up, and Tom watches him turn it on.

“I would have come sooner,” the Columbian says as he watches it boot up, “But, business.”

Tom - for once - doesn’t pry. He understands, and although he is furious, this isn’t going to be the man he lets it out on.

“And Chris?” Because he can’t not ask. It’s been a month and twelve days, after all.

“Working from a safe place.” Clover turns the phone to show Tom the various missed calls and text message notifications that begin to plague his phone, all different numbers, even in the same day. “He is busy trying to organize his pile of shit.”

Tom looks away from his phone, not wanting to see at it anymore, and instead he listens as Clover goes on, “The police infiltrated the ring, and now everything is up in the air. Chris cannot trust anyone right now, he's being hunted and everyone is out to get him for bounty money or revenge, or both.”

Suddenly, he remembers that day in Laron’s villa, and he looks at Clover, “Were either of you hurt?”

“No,” Clover shakes his head and sets the phone down, walking to sit next to Tom’s bed with a sigh, “You took most of it.”

“Yeah,” he drawls dryly, “I’m going to make a complete recovery, but I will have pain for the rest of my life, from time to time.”

Clover frowns, but he doesn’t look sorry. He looks away, as if a little ashamed - if it were possible. He hesitates, his mouth opening and closing, before he quietly says, “I told him it was a bad idea. Ever since the first time you came along, I always told him, ‘he will get hurt’, and he always said, ‘he knows that’, but I don’t think _he_ did.”

Tom watches him quietly, sadly. Clover has been against this since the beginning, them. Tom knew that ever since he first saw Chris’ right-hand man, because Clover knew what would happen to the escort Chris had fallen for. He’s played this game before. This is just a different outcome.

“He knew,” Tom murmurs after a moment, “He always tried to drive me away, you know. I think that’s why he wanted me there, to see the ugliness in him.”

Clover smiles wryly, “And did you?”

“No,” he doesn’t dare lie about this, “I seen Chris at work. That’s all.”

And, surprisingly, Clover does nothing but nod. Tom expected a look of some sort, perhaps a scoff or a scowl, but this is pure acceptance in its truest form. This is it. Tom is accepted, not as a liability or a temporary comfort, but as something constant. He will always be there, either physically or in spirit, an Clover turns to look at the younger man, levelling him with his gaze for a moment before saying, “You do not sound so lost anymore.”

Tom’s brows furrow, “Lost…?”

“Fooled, I mean. Not lost in a fantasy.”

_Oh._

He tries to smile, but it’s a pathetic little thing that just twists his face, so he quietly asks, “Can I go home now?”

And Clover goes to talk to the head nurse.

**

He goes home the next morning, very early. Clover hadn’t stayed to sit and chat, he was limited on time and all he gave Tom was a warning.

“Do not try to contact him,” he’d said, his voice grave and not leaving an inch to argue, “He will do it when he is able to. If you want to keep him safe, keep your distance.”

That will be the easiest part, he figures.

When he wakes up, he has breakfast with Paulo, having one last chat about where Tom’s going and what he plans on doing.

“A whole lot of healing.”

“That makes one of us.”

He was tempted to ask for a hug, but it didn’t seem right to. Instead, he asks, “Do you have anymore wisdom before I go?”

A small, sad smile crosses Paulo’s face, and although he isn’t heartbroken to see Tom go, it’s obvious there’s some kind of emotion in his dark green eyes. He calmly says, “No. I am not wise, Tom. We’re just different people with different experiences and different perceptions.”

Tom feels at peace with that, and he leaves with a simple little smile and, “See you later.”

\--

The early morning at the airport reminds him of Chris, right away. There’s no denying it. It’s everywhere; the scent of Starbucks coffee, the sleepy faces, the comfortable clothes he’d been given. He goes through security, unsmiling and alone, and carefully slumps into a seat at his gate. He used to pull the hood of his sweater over his head and sleep against Chris at 5am, snoring lightly. Chris never slept in airports when they would have to wait for the jet to be prepared or cleaned. Perhaps it was his never-ending paranoia.

What Tom misses most of all is the warmth, the security; knowing that he could sleep in public and nothing or no one would harm him. Not even the man beside him, his protector and lover and the only one he needed. This time, he has to stay awake, and ride coach back to California, back to his shitty little apartment and his tiny little balcony, with a fucked up shoulder and a broken heart, where he'll start smoking again and attempt to take care of himself even though all he wants to do is the opposite.

It’s time to let go and start healing.


	16. Hardest of Hearts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [one last song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7LD7Plg_aL0)

He taps his cigarette against the pink ceramic ashtray, eyelashes damp from the rain as he blinks and wonders where he is. There’s sand between his toes and he’s sitting at an outdoor bar with a man almost twice his age, again. Again and again and again and again.

Perhaps he’ll fall in love with this one, too. His heart is weary and broken but it’s easily malleable these days.

Because it’s been two months. Two months of soul-sucking silence, with no ‘hello’ or ‘I’m sorry’ or ‘run away with me’, no nothing.

It makes him incredibly bitter. It makes his attempts at normalcy seem pathetic.

“Ready to go?”

“Yeah.” He stubs the cigarette out and slips off the barstool, shuffling along behind the man who’s paying for his time.

He returned home from Florida that afternoon two months ago, with nothing but the clothes on his back, and after an extra hot shower, he fell into his musty bed and slept for a whole day. Dreaming and wishing and knowing it would never happen.

The next morning, it was back to work with a stiff and sore shoulder. Ashlie was understanding about the pain, but that didn’t mean he gave a single shit. “Tom deserved it, he played with fire when I told him not to.” Now look at him, sucking dick for money and pretending to have a good time when really he’s dying inside.

Or something like that.

It shouldn’t have been so easy to slip back into his role of lonely escort, but it is. He tries to fuck his clients when they have enough money to, but his shoulder aches in this position and he can’t move it that much in that position, either. It’s frustrating but he welcomes the pain, thankful of it coming from somewhere that isn’t his heart.

“Have you always smoked?”

“I started on my fifteenth summer.”

“That’s a fancy way of putting it.”

Not really.

He doesn’t remember this client after fucking him, instead he returns home to shower and smoke again, coughing up sticky phlegm and spitting it into the sink. It’s a nasty habit that began after his first cigarette in seven weeks. His lungs are trying to clean themselves, as if they were trying to make him spit up his toxicity.

His life is just like before, but it’s also so very different.

Every kiss and hug is only a reminder of what he had. It’s like some damn sad song come to life, which he avoids like the plague. He’s so used to having some sort of music playing when he was with Chris, an idle track in the background, and it’s one of the many habits that have stuck. He listens to soft jazz during baths and when he sleeps, alternative jams when he’s cleaning and smoking, and silence when he lays on the sofa, running fingertips over his chest softy, slowly.

**

What surprises him one day is a call from Sofía, a week after his return. He’d stubbed his toe rushing for his phone, and felt stupid after realizing who it was.

“Hi Tom, did you go and see my friend?”

“No, sorry. I haven’t had time.”

“Oh.” A pause, “Well, go see him soon, please. The sooner you begin, the sooner you will recover.”

“Right.”

Six months to a year of recovery isn’t going to happen very fast.

“Please, Tom.”

“Well,” he takes a drag, “Since you asked so nicely.”

“Thank you.”

“Have a good day, Sof.”

“You, too, Tom. I’ll check up on you again.”

_Please, don’t._

**

Everything is so, so raw. Most of his wounds are in his heart, but it’s like his shoulder knows how to express them best.

He’s angry.

He’s depressed.

He’s desperately alone.

Seventy-two days in, and he murmurs ‘ _te adoro siempre_ ’ to himself a few times as he listens to the silence from his sofa.

_I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you._

A sudden little burst of curiosity takes hold of him then, his brows furrowing as he reaches for his phone and looks up a quick translator.

He types in ‘I hate you’, and he stares down at the black on white _‘te odio’_ for a long time.

It’s like he slipped into an ice bath when he reads the suggestion just below it, an opposite expression, _‘te adoro siempre’_ meaning ‘I adore you always’.

He laughs in disbelief, at first. A weird little bubble of laughter that comes from his throat, because he can’t believe it. This entire time, Chris knew. He tricked Tom into revealing his feelings, no matter how small and insignificant it seemed. They were just words, yes, but Tom didn’t understand them and he never thought of checking it during their time together because he _trusted_ Chris.

What else has Chris said in his second tongue? How many times has he said something sweet? Bitter? Spiteful? Or, did he only save it for the words he couldn’t ever speak in English, because of his poorly guarded heart?

His next laugh is more like a sob, and he drops his phone onto the couch. Unshed tears cloud his vision, and he feels that familiar knot in his throat, knowing he’s at a crossroads and he has a path to choose. He can clench his jaw and close his eyes, stop it before it begins, like he always does. Or, he can let it go, all of it. Every bit of pain in his heart can leave through the salty tears, the tears for Chris and his father and Frederick and the countless people that have come and gone from his life.

The first tear is like a tiny flame against his cheek.

And more come, trailing down flushed skin, hiccups catching in his throat as he cries and it burns him up from the inside out. It’s so strong, so sudden, he’s scared and he jumps up from the couch to pace and try to get oxygen in his lungs.

_It’s a panic attack._

_Breathe, Tom._ Chris’ voice is in his head as he stumbles to the kitchen and knocks over a stool. _In for three, hold, and then out the same. Look at me, don’t look away. Stay with me, baby. It’s alright, just touch something, ground yourself. You can do that for me, right?_

He grabs the island counter and sinks to his knees, crying in short little hiccups and the memory of having Chris calm him down after nearly downing in Venice only makes it worse.

Desperate not to pass out, Tom lays down in his kitchen and stares at one dot in the ceiling, breathing as he was taught to. One, two, three, hold. Three, two, one. Again.

It’s one tear for every client, regardless if they stayed for one night or months on end. A few more for his neglectful father and abandoned mother, and the sisters he can’t remember. A handful more for Frederick, the times Tom would hold back his tears after a smack and he’d have to quietly clean himself up. Tears for loneliness, pain, loss, and love. The hottest of tears come for Chris, and only Chris.

But the most spill for himself. Tom cries on his kitchen floor, clutching himself and crying, quiet little whimpers escalating to painful sobs, and back again. It’s wave after wave of repressed emotions, and it’s ugly. His upper lip is wet and his cheeks are flushed and damp, his eyes red and his nicotine cough wracks his body.

It’s hard to tell how long he’s like that. The sun is gone by the time he lays quietly, a hot temple pressed to the cool floor. He watches a small spider crawl under the fridge, his hooded gaze puffy and tired. A wet sniff, his nose wiped against his forearm, ignoring the smear of wet left behind. He revels in the humanity of it all, of being real, of finally _feeling_ without having any traces of carefully built walls.

11:24 pm reads on the stove, when Tom finally peels himself from the floor. He slumps his way to his bed, his bones weighing heavier than they ever have despite the lightness in his chest. For the first time, he feels peace. He crawls under his multiple blankets and feels like a child again, a little homesick for the home he doesn’t have. There’s only a faint memory of a loving hold, thin arms encompassing him as a boy, a kiss to his brow that soothed every ache and pain, no matter how small.

He sleeps by 2:16 am, tears still leaking from the corner of his eyes.

**

It’s closing in on three weeks when he gets the call.

It feels like a dream, seeing an unfamiliar number light up his screen just before bed. His room is dark and his window is wide open, letting in the sounds of the city, but it all fades away as he answers the buzzing phone in his hand.

He holds his breath, lips parted as he stares at a fixed point.

“Thomas?”

He gapes, his voice stuck in his throat, a thousand words in his mind but none reach his tongue.

Chris’ voice is quieter, almost a whisper, “It’s me, baby.” A pause, and then, “I’m so sorry.”

_Why?_

“Please, say something. Anything.”

What can he say? It’s been three months, longer, if he considered his stay in the hospital in Florida.

“Listen, I can’t talk long, but, I want to see you. Can I see you?”

“Why?” He nearly chokes out, finally, although he’s winded.

Chris sounds relieved to hear his voice, and Tom swallows thickly. “I want to explain myself. I didn’t mean to keep away for so long, but, I did it for a good reason.”

“I know you did,” he nearly whispers, burrowing under his blankets, “It’s going to take more than a little apology, Chris.”

“I know,” the Aussie says quickly, “I know. I want you to listen to what I have to say, and then you can decide whether you want to forgive me or not, okay?”

“Okay.” He murmurs, brows furrowed, “When?”

“In two days.”

“Okay.” He repeats, almost to himself, “Where?”

Chris is quiet for a moment, again, before he cautiously asks, “Your place?”

Tom’s never let a client come back to his place before. The only person that’s been in his apartment is Ashlie, and he could count the amount of his visits on one hand.

He agrees quietly, and tells Chris his address.

“I’ll see you then, Thomas.”

The call ends and Tom doesn’t sleep for hours. He lays there, tossing and turning, finding cool spots and playing with a frayed stitch. He doesn’t want to think about what will happen in the next two days, he just wants to sleep, but he knows it’s impossible and Sofía’s advice suddenly comes back to him.

_It’s better to get it out in the air than have it in your head._

Risking craziness, Tom quietly mumbles his thoughts out into the air of his bedroom, about his love for Chris and how he knows he’ll never get over him if they never see each other again. He’ll grow old by himself, forever faithful, no matter how lonely he gets. Perhaps he’ll quit all of this and find something else. A real job, with interviews and resumes, punch times and hierarchy. He could find a hobby other than smoking and watching movies. Maybe he’ll quit smoking, or smoke more. He won’t have love but he’ll have everything else.

On the other hand, what if Chris does love him, and wants to be with him? How will it work? Will it work, at all? Yes. They’d make it work. Because it’s love and Daphne told him to be selfish with it. Keep it for as long as he can. He shouldn’t let Chris slip away. But, if you love something, let it go, right? It’ll come back.

And he has let go. For five months. He attempted to detach himself from Chris, and in result he had an emotional breakdown on his kitchen floor.

And Chris came back.

He tries not to give himself too much hope. Instead, he shuts off his mind and tries to sleep. He has two days to think, after all.

**

It happens on a Thursday, just after six in the evening. Tom’s made himself and his apartment as presentable as possible, running his fingers through his curls and nibbling his lips, worried Chris has changed his mind when the hour closes.

And then his buzzer in the hall goes off, and he lets Chris in without a word.

There’s no big, magical kiss when Tom opens the door. Neither of them fall to the other’s feet and beg for forgiveness. They don’t fall into each other’s arms, but they do stare. A lot.

Chris’ hair is short.

Tom hasn’t been sleeping.

His tan is darker, his eyes bluer, the worry lines in his face deeper than he remembers them being.

He hasn’t been eating but his cheeks are ruddy, at least.

He looks so sad.

“Come in.”

Tom locks them both in once Chris steps inside.

He watches Chris take in his apartment, his eyes flitting over every little thing from the living room set up to the ashtray by the balcony, recently emptied. He looks not overly impressed, but there’s a tiny smile gracing his face, like he’s proud and relieved.

Tom can survive without him.

“Five months,” Chris rumbles, the first to the break the silence as he turns to face Tom, who’s standing just in the entrance to the living room while Chris stands in the middle of it.

“Yeah.” He murmurs in reply, clenching his jaw. It’s almost surreal to have Chris standing in his apartment, unharmed and alive.

“I didn’t want to leave you,” Chris admits, his eyes soft and full of pain, brows curved in a way that made Tom understand more than words ever could, “Not for that long. We hadn’t been apart for more than a month since we first met. I was proud of that.”

Tom wraps his arms around himself, feeling so very vulnerable, “I was upset,” he admits, thumbing at his bony elbow, “Enraged at you, for leaving me. But, I understood why. I still do. Your job comes first.” He nearly whispers, feeling so very bitter over that little fact.

Chris nods, and he looks a little bitter about it, as well, but instead of commenting he asks, “Come sit with me?”

They sit on opposite ends of the couch, and Tom listens to the man across from him explain himself. His ring in Columbia was ambushed, torn apart by police and investigators. He can’t go anywhere without someone wanting to kill or turn him in for the bounty. Even his connections down there can’t keep him out of prison.

“So, you’re hiding,” Tom murmurs, gently biting on his thumb.

Chris nods, “I run, or I give in.”

He tries to imagine Chris in prison, his lover locked away for a long time, where he’d be alone and vulnerable to all of the criminals he was most likely connected to in some way. Would he be able to run that prison like he ran the outside world? Or would they all turn against him?

The image of Chris dead in his cell sends a cold shiver down Tom’s spine, and suddenly understands his decision.

Chris seems to notice the look on his face, “Don’t be scared,” he murmurs, “You won’t be connected to me. You’ll be safe, I promise you.”

If he knows anything, it’s that Chris always keeps his promises. Always tries to, more importantly.

Still.

“Where will you go?” He asks, brows furrowed the slightest.

“Australia,” Chris half shrugs, “My connections there will help me.”

Australia. Of all the places they’ve gone, that’s one Tom has never seen.

“And then?” Tom asks, unable to help the spark of hope in his chest.

A small smile quirks Chris’ face, “I have no idea, baby.”

Tom looks away, licking his lips and swallowing the words on his tongue.

“You have something on your mind,” Chris’ voice is soft and careful, as it always is when he wants Tom to open up, and Tom can see his lover move just a little bit closer from the corner of his vision. “Tell me. Please.”

Old habits are hard to break, so Tom stays quiet about what’s really on his mind. Instead, surprisingly, he says: “You lied.”

Chris doesn’t react aside from, “About?”

Tom glances over at him, sizing him up before muttering, “ _Te adoro siempre.”_

The Aussie looks only so bashful at that, maybe even a little ashamed, scratching the back of his neck and smiling, “Yeah, a small trickery on my part.”

“You’re a cheeky bastard.”

A soft, deep laugh rumbles from Chris’ chest and Tom wants to be close to him. He forgot how easily Chris made him relax.

But, not yet. His smile melts and the air becomes solemn again as he wraps his arms around his chest and begins to speak, Sofía’s words echoing in his head. “I don’t know what to do,” he admits quietly, “I’m scared. Whenever I’m around you, my rationality disappears, and I have this ignorant, naïve belief that you can protect me from anything – everything. But, we know that’s not true.”

As if on cue, his shoulder aches, and he frowns before pressing his palm against it.

Chris can’t meet his eye because of that.

“I can’t follow you around blindly anymore, Chris. I’m smarter than that. I’m tired of pretending that everything is fine and that it’s okay for us not to talk about what we feel for one another.” His voice catches in his throat, and he takes a moment to breathe, “You hurt me, I hurt myself, I probably hurt you, too. I…want to be with you, but everything else tells me not to.”

Chris looks at him then, his jaw set, “Ashlie?”

“He’s voiced his displeasure about us, yeah,” Tom murmurs, “I also told myself to stay away, the voice of reason in my head, just…everything.”

They’re quiet for a moment, both thinking and dwelling on what to do.

“Well,” Chris murmurs, and Tom glances over at him, waits until their gazes are levelled, “I want you. I always have. I always will.”

Tom feels tears well in his eyes. There’s relief, an enormous pressure lifted from him, and happiness in his chest, and this small bittersweet feeling underlying it all.

“If I am ever caught, Thomas, the police will want my confession. I will never give it to them. But, here is my confession to you.” There’s no space between them anymore, Chris is on the floor in front of him, looking up at him with such vulnerability it makes Tom’s chest ache. “Do you remember, back in Vegas, when I told you I liked you and you asked me why, and I said I’d tell you when I knew?”

Tom nods, biting the inside of his cheek. He was trembling.

“I like you because despite everything life throws at you, you keep going. You never give up. You had neglectful parents, an abusive lover, and now, me. I’ve abandoned you for months. You’re an escort who once felt nothing, who could barely look me in the eye, but you’ve opened up to me during our time together – a year and a half, I’ll have you know – and I’ve never felt so honored to have you do that. You are good, Tom. There is no bad in you. Maybe a little, but it only makes me like you more.” Chris smiles, a soft little thing that dances on his face, “In the beginning, I was afraid to see you. My history with escorts is not good, but, after that first night, I was hooked. I knew there was something beneath the surface, it showed in the depths of your eyes, and I was fascinated to know more about you. You’re cynical, proud, recklessly brave, curious, and you are a broken little thing. But, most importantly, you’re a fighter. Just like me. We’ve dealt with so many things, and you’re just starting to heal.”

There’s a pause for breath, to both get a grip, before Chris summons the nerve, “And there is nothing I want more than to witness you become the best you can be, with me, because I’m hopelessly in love with you, Thomas.”

The tears overflow his eyes, burning hot on his cheeks, and he realizes this is Chris’ first time seeing him cry because there is a look of acute wonder and awe on the Aussie’s face. But there’s also anxiousness, waiting for a response to such a heartfelt confession.

He can never seem to find his tongue straight away during times like these, so, Tom reaches down and gently pinches Chris’ chin between his thumb and curled forefinger with a watery smile on his face.

Chris deflates, and laughs under his breath, before finally pulling Tom in for a long sought kiss.

It’s delicate and desperate, curled tongues and smiling mouths – Tom pulls away to frantically whisper “I love you, I love you,” and peppering Chris’ face with it, carefully wrapping his long limbs around the older man until he’s attached like a koala bear and will never let go.

_Finally_ , he can’t help but to think.

Chris carries him to bed, because it has been five months, but Tom pushes all thought of decency out of his mind as he feels Chris’ cool fingers under his shirt and in his hair. He allows himself to be stripped, biting his lip as Chris presses a tender kiss to his scarred shoulder and murmurs apologies and promises that Tom readily accepts.

There’s no ‘Daddy’ on his tongue this time, only Chris. There’s no charade or kink, just love in the rawest form.

Their bodies become tangled in one another, their mouths rarely parting unless to lay possessive little marks on one another, muttering ‘ _mineminemine’_ under shared breath. Tom arches and writhes, allows his legs to be parted and lifted, feeling a cool press of slick fingers and reaching for the man he loves once he’s inside, slick and bare and Tom’s never felt anything so damned good. There’s no shame in the messiness or quickness of it, they understand, both so wound up tight and more than glad to have unravelled together.

Tom draws patterns into the damp skin of Chris’ chest with his fingertip, like he has so many times before, quietly savouring the feeling of sticky warmth on his inner thighs for the first time. This man understands, he loves him, he _wants_ Tom. Chris wants him in his life, he wants to see Tom heal himself, to provide the help he will need, to keep him on track. This is the first step to healing, and he’s no longer scared to do it.

“I want to be mad for forgiving you so quickly,” he murmurs, “But, it would only do worse to push you away.”

Chris hums, and presses a kiss to Tom’s sweaty hairline because he understands and agrees.

“What now?” He asks, his voice quiet and curious, as it always and forever will be.

“We run away together,” Chris smirks, turning to look at him, taking in the blue of his eyes. “We’ll pack up your things and go to Australia. We’ll start anew. Together.”

It sounds like a cheesy fairy tale. But Tom wants it, desperately.

“And Ashlie?”

“I forgot about him,” Chris frowns, and thinks for a moment, before Tom pipes up without hesitation.

“I’ll quit.”

Yet, Chris looks worried, “You will?”

“I know it’s my only source of income, but I have plenty saved up to start again, with you. This apartment belongs to him, too. I won’t need it down in Australia.” He licks his lips and presses his cheek to Chris’ bicep, “I know it’ll be hard, Chris. The hardest thing I’ll ever do, to start again, but, I’m ready. And I have you to help me.”

Chris smiles brightly at that, and they share a quiet kiss.

Love isn’t all pain, he realizes. Trust isn’t some kind of poison he has to swallow. He doesn’t have to be numb anymore. There is nothing to apologize for because it’s already been forgiven. There’s no more hesitation, because how can you be nervous about something you’ve been doing all along? Chris loves him, and he loves Chris. They’re willing to try and risk it all, for each other, for themselves.

Almost as an afterthought, after the kiss, Chris murmurs, “Yes, baby. You do.”

One last thought, filling Tom’s eyes with tears and his heart with happiness and relief.

_You’re okay._

**

_Fin_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank each and every single one of you who've stayed with me until the end <3 I wouldn't have done it without everyone's lovely comments, kudos, bookmarks, and general support! This is the first fic I have ever finished, and I'm glad I did (one year, two laptops, and several small hiatus' later lol).   
> If anyone is interested in a little epilogue, please let me know!   
> Thank you again so much, I had so much fun, until next time <3


	17. Epilogue: You Are My Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “I saw paradise,  
> In your lonely eyes,  
> And if I only get to see ‘em once,  
> That’ll be enough, that’ll be fine.  
> You already know all my secrets,  
> But I wanna keep you guessing  
> You already know all my secrets,  
> But I will keep confessing,   
> Oh, I will keep confessing.”  
> Keep Confessing ~ Springtime Carnivore

He wakes with a start to a sudden sound, just outside, through the open window. A quick glance to the alarm clock tells him it’s just after seven in the morning.

Salvatore growls first, a low rumble from the foot of the bed, and then Sol does the same from behind Tom. With a soft grunt, he shifts up to sit, rubbing at his eye and grimacing at the usual stiffness in his shoulder. A year and a half later, and he’s still sore.

_It’s the way you sleep, all curled up,_ Tom could hear his lover say.

He glances over at the other side of the bed and pushes the duvet back, smiling down at the one hundred and twenty pound Rottweiler that stares up at him in return, panting softly. He’d thought that was Chris sleeping behind him.

“Good morning,” he murmurs, petting between the dog’s ears, which are still perked to listen.

Sol was the baby of the litter that the two brothers had come from. Salvatore was the protective one, always growling at little sounds in the night and rarely letting anyone touch him that wasn’t Chris or Tom. They had adopted the two pups when they first moved to Australia, for protection and love, and adopted a cat for Tom. He loved the pups, but he was partial to Rosie, his lazy Van Kedisi that was partial to the kitchen sink.

With a morning kiss from Sol, Tom moves from the bed and goes over to the dresser, quietly pulling on loose shorts and a thin t-shirt as a familiar feeling crawls up his spine.

They aren’t safe. They never will be. They’re far from the danger of being caught, but that paranoia is still there when things go bump in the night.

Or, early morning.

Sol and Salvatore watch Tom reach for the bat behind the dresser, curling his fingers around the cool metal.

The house is quiet and A/C cool, until he can hear the front door opening, and he hushes Salvatore’s growling as he goes over to the bedroom door. It’s wide open, and he presses his back against it, listening to his thumping heart as heavy footsteps come closer and closer from down the hall.

Where is Chris? He’s never out so early. They went to bed together last night, as always. Chris doesn’t wake up early.

He nearly swings at the shadow he sees, the bat caught in a ringed hand as Chris rounds the corner with a surprised sound.

“Jesus Christ, don’t fucking scare me like that,” Tom gasps in relief as he drops his weapon and wraps his arms around Chris’ shoulders, shaking gently as the Aussie rubs up and down his back soothingly. The pups rise and go to them, barking happily while their docked tails wag.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” Chris murmurs as he presses a kiss to Tom’s cheek, breaking the hug to crouch and pay attention to the two dogs, “I thought you were still sleeping.”

“You woke me,” Tom hums, smiling down at the three of them, watching them exchange good morning kisses before asking, “Where were you?”

“Loading up my board. We’re going to the beach today, remember?”

Right. It was Saturday, they always went to the beach on the weekend.

“I do. Breakfast?” Because he wouldn’t be going back to sleep now.

“Yes.”

**

It hadn’t been easy. It was hard to pack up his life into two large suitcases. He’d donated most of his clothing and tossed whatever else he couldn’t take into the dumpster behind his apartment. Chris helped him a great deal, promising they’d have everything they needed in Australia, soothing every bit of Tom’s worry.

But, would they? If they didn’t have everything, would they have nothing?

No. He trusted Chris.

Packing took about two days, in which Chris stayed. He lazed around the apartment, sprawled across the small sofa, sitting in front of Tom’s DVD collection with a small look of concentration on his face. They shut the blinds tight and ordered pizza to watch with the movies Chris picked out.

They smoked on the balcony together, Tom’s feet in Chris’ lap, with Chris rubbing warmth back into his icy toes with one hand while the other flicked ash from his cigarette.

“Maybe we should quit,” Chris murmured the first evening, staring at his cigarette as he thumbed at Tom’s ankle.

“Maybe.” Tom sighed out with his smoke, staring at the setting sun across the rooftops, wondering what the sunsets were like in Australia.

The next day, Chris’ house was ready.

“I’m scared.” Tom whispered into his fingertips, pressed against Chris’ side as they rode to the airport.

Chris said nothing, but he thumbed at Tom’s knuckles. Kissed them.

It was like every muscle in his body was tensed as they made their way through the airport, fake passports clutched in a shaky fist. Going through security was worse.

_They know it’s him, they do._

Chris smiles easily at the woman checking his passport and ticket, thanking her and wishing her a good day before Tom approaches her and smiles shyly.

Chris takes his hand up once they’re through, wheeling his luggage through the gates and further down, until they’re outside and the jet is just ahead.

Clover is standing there, silent and steady as a rock, watching them behind his sunglasses and helping Chris load up while Tom climbs the stairs.

His heart is racing and he’s sweating, wondering if he’ll sweat blood from his temples. He licks the salt from his upper lip as Chris and Clover board after him, watching them quietly, clutching his book against his chest when Chris hands it to him silently.

Even as the pilot starts up the jet and begins to drive down the runway, Tom is tense, so much that he has a headache beginning to curl around his head.

It’s going to be a long flight, Chris tells him. Try to get some sleep.

There’s no way in hell he’s going to sleep. So, he cracks open his book, and tries to distract himself.

Hours later, drifting in and out of fitful sleep, he feels them begin to descend. A soft feeling in his gut makes him curl up in his seat, book pressed against his chest again as he closes his eyes and waits for something terrible to happen. They fall, they crash, they die. A deity smacks them out from the sky as punishment and they’ll never be together.

But then the wheels kiss the ground and Tom sighs a shaky breath of relief.

**

The house is a gorgeous thing, placed in Victoria, far enough from the busy cities but not too far to be completely secluded. It’s hot and humid, more than California had ever been, but Tom loves it. He loves the heat and the sun and the fact that this is his home now, with Chris. He stepped out of the car Chris had waiting at the airport and approaches the house with wide eyes.

The roof is nearly flat, and extends a foot or so from the house, giving the large windows enough shade to keep the house cool during the day. The house is a dark, faded green, set atop a small hill with a driveway just underneath it. The windows are Tom’s favourite part of it: nearly floor to ceiling, but with plenty of heavy curtains. There’s a large tree in the small front yard, the leaves shift in the wind as Tom takes a deep breath and heads towards the door.

Inside, it’s clean and modern, but still shows its age. It’s only one floor, which Tom likes, with a spacious living area where the sun can come into in the mornings. He can already see himself on the sofa, sipping tea with a book, or having a nap with Chris there. There’s an ottoman and a small curved sofa, but nothing else, not yet. Tom’s already planning on what to hang on the walls and what type of rug would look best on the floor.

The kitchen is small, but it’s understandable. Neither of them are cooks, but it’s still a good size if one of them wanted to try in the future.

The long hallway extends down to the master bedroom, with a large bed, walk-in closet, and half bath. There’s only one window, but he’s fine with that.

Tom’s leaning against the doorway when he feels Chris behind him, and then he’s brought into an embrace so soft and warm he can’t help but lean back into him.

They stand there, hugging, with Chris’ lips pressed against his ear, breathing gently. They say nothing, just take in the moment. This is theirs, they made it, and nothing can or will take it from them. Tom will fight for this until his dying breath leaves his body, because this is all he’s ever wanted.

“Welcome home, baby.” Chris rumbles into his ear, and Tom feels tears in his eyes.

**

“We can’t get a puppy, Chris.”

“Why not? We’ve been here for three months - I think that’s long enough to get settled.”

Being back in Australia brings the accent back to Chris. He doesn’t sound so silly anymore, just sexier.

“We have Rosie. I think she’s enough.” Tom glances over at the kitten sleeping on the sofa’s back, nestled perfectly and happily. He strokes her head and she purrs, content.

Chris smiles at them, “Yes, she’s darling, but she can’t protect us, can she?”

He has a point.

So, Tom caves. “Fine. But we have to get two.”

Chris’ grin is wider than ever and he presses a hard, messy kiss to Tom’s cheek in thanks.

**

The paranoia began to fade around the nine-month mark. Their dogs are bigger than the small beans they’d brought home one evening, introducing them to Rosie carefully and making sure to socialize them at dog parks and on the street during walks. They eat a mixture of puppy chow and table scraps, they play together and watching Chris wrestle around with them brings Tom so much joy.

It’s so…normal.

But, Tom gets restless, and so does Chris.

The itch to go, to leave, is always there. Tom finds himself looking at plane ticket prices and Chris talks about the places he misses visiting, like Vegas. Especially Vegas.

“For our five-year anniversary,” Tom murmurs that night in bed, kissing Chris’ neck gently, “We’ll go back. Just for a bit.”

Chris hums, because he knows it can’t happen, and it’s terrible to crave something you can’t have, but they’re both used to it so it’s not so bad.

“Let’s explore Australia a bit more, first,” Tom murmurs as he kisses Chris’ chest, down his breastbone, his stomach, the soft skin beneath his navel.

Chris agrees with a breathy ‘yeah’ and says nothing else for the rest of the night that isn’t a moan.

**

After a year at home, they decide to celebrate.

Chris sees his family again, after ten years of being away. It was his form of protection, he’d explained to Tom. He had to disown himself in order to keep them all from harm.

And they welcomed he and Tom into their lives with open arms and happy kisses on the cheek, but not after a tear-filled reunion. Tom had expected anger, yelling of betrayal, or something like that. All they got were tight hugs and proper introductions. Tom’s never known a functioning family – a happy one, at that. It’s so strange. They’re always laughing and making jokes that aren’t laced with an insult. How can any of this be real?

Just like Chris’ affection, it’ll take some time getting used to. But, then again, he has the rest of his life.

He loves Chris’ nieces the most. They’re so happy all the time, and they don’t hesitate to play with Tom. They’re loud and annoying and Tom’s happy to babysit them whenever he and Chris can.

That night, Chris holds him close, and asks, “How happy are you?”

Tom’s happiness isn’t in question, but rather, how much of it is he experiencing?

He smiles at his love and kisses his cheekbone gently, muttering, “The happiest I’ve ever been.” He never lies anymore. He and Chris are open to one another, unashamed to say how they feel, even if it starts a fight that’s over before supper. It’s healthier than bottling up and exploding.

**

He makes friends. Slowly, of course. Chris reconnects with a few people that he can trust – people that aren’t in the business. Tom joins an art class that he goes to twice a week at the local college and actually meets people his age. It’s strange, much like everything else in his life. They talk about school and what classes they’re taking and ask Tom the same questions. He’s embarrassed when he admits to not attending school, but instead of harsh judgement, they tell him it’s his choice and that not everyone is the same.

He takes a liking to them immediately.

There’s Tara, a girl with pastel pink hair that discusses classic books with him on sunny afternoons in her backyard. And there’s Aiden, who’s into photography and likes to take pictures of Tom the most, because “your jawline and cheekbones are crazy, Tom!”. And Maggie is introverted, unless you bring up Harry Potter, then she won’t stop talking and Tom loves listening to her gush over the books and her criticism of the movies.

He takes up painting as a hobby, and Chris has reserved a room in their house specifically for Tom’s newfound passion. He’s in that room more often than not, creating messy pieces and finds it rather therapeutic. Much more than his former shower havens.

Sometimes, he catches himself thinking back to his days as an escort, and it seems like a lifetime ago. He’s here now, happy and painting and making a little money from them, too. Chris is working for his father at his business and stays inside a lot, except for when they can’t handle being hermits anymore and head to the beach for a day. They have their little house and little family. They don’t need anything else, and Tom knows he’ll never completely shed that feeling of paranoia. Instead, he begins to accept it, and works around it. He looks at the facts of where they are and the likeliness of being caught, and he calms down. Chris tells him the same thing, too. He’ll hold Tom close and whisper to him that it’s fine, they’re okay, and there’s nothing to worry about.

And that rational part of him tells Tom to not believe him, to disregard everything and be paranoid of everyone, but it’s exhausting and he gives in, nodding in agreement and knowing it’s for the best.

**

He turns 23 on a rainy Tuesday evening, surrounded by his lover, friends, Chris’ family, and their pets. He holds Rosie against his chest and presses his smiling, blushing face into her soft white fur as everyone sings to him in the dark kitchen, a homemade cake set in front of him with just barely enough candles to be considered a fire hazard.

“Make a wish, Tom!”

He takes a moment before blowing them out and everyone cheers.

There’s plenty of drinks and laughs as the evening goes on, a few gifts from friends that Tom cherishes – and the one picture from Aiden will definitely be going to Chris’ collection, he knows that. He feels a warmth in his chest that spreads throughout his entire body as the evening turns to night, and then he and Chris are wishing everyone a safe ride home and thanking them for being there.

Sol and Salvatore are in bed before he and Chris are, which is fine. They pick up some of the mess before swearing to each other that they’ll clean up tomorrow, and collapse onto the couch together.

“So,” Chris clears his throat, nosing at Tom’s curls.

“I had so much fun,” Tom whispers with a grin, trying to smother it a moment later as he wraps his arms around Chris.

“Yes, I know, I could tell by your smile.” Chris teases, chuckling softly as Tom notices the ache beginning in his cheeks.

“I never would have thought I could be this happy,” he admits quietly, breaking the silence that was consumed by the rain outside. He stares out of the large window and watches the tree move with the wind, recalling his birthday last year and how different that had been from this year’s.

Chris hums gently but says nothing else, content to lay there and share body heat. There’s nothing else to really say. Chris is happy because Tom is happy. How strange, to find happiness in other’s happiness. But, he can’t expect anything less from his lover. Chris has always been selfless, ever since Tom had met him.

“Can you promise me this, for the rest of my life?” Tom asks softly and suddenly, his tone serious as he held Chris’ arm. “No matter how long or short it will be?”

He can’t see Chris’ face from here, but he doesn’t need to. Doesn’t want to.

“Yes, baby. I promise.” The soft, thoughtful tone is just as serious as Tom’s had been, and that’s all he needs to know to feel peace.

“Thank you.”

He turns onto his stomach to share a kiss with the man he loves, and feels at home.


End file.
